The Second Coming
by ginnyharry.crucio
Summary: They couldn't have been happier. But apparently fate has a twisted sense of humour. Mondler.
1. Chapter 1

Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
Are full of passionate intensity.

\- "The Second Coming", W.B. Yeats

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

* * *

"Do I look good?"

It was a typical Saturday night for Monica, or so she would've liked to believe even as she rushed about in the living room, hyperventilating, tripped twice against the carpet and continued to flap her dress and nose into the mirror. Rachel sighed.

"For the hundredth time, Monica, yes. You look totally hot."

"I'm-getting-engaged-today hot?"

Rachel flinched. "Look, you have got to stop saying that. You have to pretend you don't know. If he gets to know I spilled the beans about the proposal you're gonna end up with a dead bridesmaid."

Monica mumbled in compliance, pressing her lips together to mellow down the excitement, "I know, I know. I _know_!" And ended it with a big wide grin.

This time, Rachel gave in and grinned back in hysterics. She climbed onto the centre table; her arms were stretched up in the air as if high-fiving a ghost. "My God, are you gonna get engaged!"

"Yes!"

"I just thought of the perfect wedding gift for you! And the centerpieces? Roses, no –lilies, no, no –periwinkle, they'll go with the sapphire of the ring!"

Monica's jaw dropped to the ground. "He showed you the _ring_?!"

Rachel half-sighed and half shook her head, "I told you, he had to tell me coz I butted in while he was going through ring brochures. You're losing your mind, Mon."

She pretty much looked like she was, as she clutched her head and thumped on the sofa. It was a sudden surge of adrenaline; her heart was practically pounding like a funeral drum, only faster. "Oh, oh yeah. God, this is real. How – how was the ring?"

Rachel squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. Her voice slightly cracked from emotion, "It was beautiful."

Monica smiled, chills running down her spine. She looked down at her fingers; they looked so naked without it. Hell, she hadn't even seen it. Rachel was right; she couldn't hyperventilate out of excitement just yet, she had to pretend being oblivious, and give her man the chance to confess his love. To make this night, the most tearful and romantic and the cheesiest of her life. Furthermore, she had an even bigger surprise to throw him off his one knee.

"Okay," she stood up again, dusted her dress and brushed her hair off the shoulders, "I'm ready. Wish me luck."

* * *

Chandler waited at the restaurant, already having been checked his watch a thousand times. He sipped at the glass of water and fervently rubbed his hands together, staring at the entrance. The velvet box felt like digging a hole in his pocket. He rehearsed in his mind for the hundredth time how he was going to do it – he was to order her favorite wine (and hence she'd know how expensive it was, he smirked to himself), and then he would propose a toast – he was quite on the fence about getting down on one knee – usually such things brought nothing but disaster to his clumsy self.

The point was, he couldn't have been more excited and terrified for this evening.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" The waiter gave him a jump-scare.

"Uh, yeah, I'd like a bottle of Cheval Blanc 1947, and could you set the music to more 1980s? I've got a special thing to do tonight," he grinned and patted at his bulged ring pocket. The waiter gave a knowing smile. That went well, he thought. At least he wasn't on a lame joke rampage tonight. He would take it for a divine sign.

The waiter left and he slipped another look into the velvet box. It was a diamond ring, sapphire on both sides. He sensed the sudden goosebumps on his arms. He thought it looked incredible. Joey had agreed.

Another fifteen minutes and she was there.

Chandler sprang up to his feet. She looked so beautiful in that pink dress, her hair fluttering at the sides, and smiling ear to ear.

"Hey," she giggled with a small head bob, and took her seat.

"You look – you look amazing," he stuttered, before retreating to his own chair. More than a year now, and it was still so hard not to gape like an idiot at her eyes.

"Sorry I'm a little late," she said, blushing a light shade of pink as she pursed her lips, "Should we order?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," he cleared his throat, "Wine?" He'd rather have the waiter pour it out; by this time his hands were trembling enough for her to figure something was up.

"Sure," she looked a little longer at him than he would've wished, "Chandler, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Totally. I'm just so, so ...over the moon!"

She laughed, "Er, what?"

And he had already begun being _Chandler_. He shook his head disapprovingly. How he loathed himself. "I don't know," he garbled, "I'm clumsy."

"I still love you, though."

"And stupid."

"And now I love you even more."

He let out a slow breath, and delicately took her hand in his. "Look," he began, as his voice left off its jokey trace and gained a certain sincerity, "I just gave you a crappy prologue to what I'm gonna say."

She first seemed a tad confused, but as he stared deeper into her eyes, she gave in. Her mouth fell open, and she gasped for air. Chandler squeezed her hand to steady her. "God, is this what I'm thinking this is?"

He chuckled. "Yes, but let me say it, or it might get me constipated for the rest of my life."

She gave off a laugh, a small pensive one, her eyes almost watering. He started from the scratch, "As I was saying, I'm clumsy and stupid and couldn't have been luckier I'm with someone like you. Before I met you, I had a real little life, and – and – well, I had a whole big damn speech prepared but I'm so nervous I've forgotten most of it. So," and with it he pulled out the ring out of the box, while she clasped her face, almost stunned out of her wits. He stumbled forth and fell on one knee – almost accidentally, but maybe it looked it was part of the act – then held out the ring, his heart pounding hard against his ribs.

"So, Kathy, will you marry me?"

She mumbled through her tears. "Oh God, yes."

He did it. Even thinking about the past few seconds made him giddy. And there they were, a sobbing mess in the middle of a packed restaurant, the diamond glowing on her finger. Without further ado, he kissed her. Things couldn't have gone better.

* * *

It was pretty late at night when Chandler finally helped himself in through the Apartment 20 door. He had expected to surprise the whole gang with the news, but it was just Monica slumped on the couch, watching TV. She lazily turned at the noise, but then jumped to her feet as soon as she saw him, squealing.

"Where the hell have you been, Chandler Bing?!" She almost yelled, her expression a lovechild of ecstasy ... and some more ecstasy. It was frankly frightening, he thought.

"What's going on?" he asked, momentarily forgetting the piece of information he intended to give in the first place, "Where's everyone else?"

"Everyone else's off to sleep, which you'd have known if you had a track of time," she patted on his arm. He glanced down at his watch; it was 2 o' clock.

"Mon, I'm so sorry, I'll get my ass out of here and not let – why are you giving me that creepy smile?"

"I have news!" She let out a happy, high-pitched cry.

"... Okay, and?"

"I'm engaged!"

"Holy Mother of God," he reached out for a bear hug, then stepped back for a dramatic quip, "Wait a minute, wait a minute. It's a conspiracy. I'm pretty sure I proposed to Kathy. You sure Kathy and Richard don't belong to the Illuminati?"

She hit him on the arm again, "You idiot," before the realisation struck her, "Oh, damn, that's what you were off doing? You proposed to Kathy?!"

"I did. And she said yes." He gushed shyly.

"I'm so happy for you, Chandler."

"Can you believe it? You and I will be married soon, and not to each other," he laughed at his own lame joke.

"I know. It's a punishment," she joined in, "Isn't it?"

"You know what, we should have our weddings together."

"Chandler, we'd be getting 'married' married, not 'sixth-grade' married."

"Think about it, you two could share your wedding dress and Richard would buy the dinner."

"I pity Kathy. Do you ever get serious?"

"Okay, okay. I'll shut up. I'll be a married man. If you say, I'll put a sign saying 'Make love, not jokes' in front of our house."

"Suits," she chuckled, "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

"Nah, I'm calling in sick. And you know what, the news cries out loud for some past-midnight beer."

"I guess we still have some," she hopped towards the fridge while he briskly made his way to the couch, flinging onto it. "Late night saucy rom-com, huh? I'm not judging," he smirked.

"You, sir, get pedicures," Monica shot back, although she sounded too happy to be actually snappy. She settled five or so cans on the centre table and snuggled beside him. "Here you go. Let's get wasted."

"Ah, our very own bachelor-bachelorette party."

* * *

Half past three in the morning, and they were ogling at the TV with barely-opened eyes, doubled up in a single blanket. The corny rom-com was still running, interspersed with commercials that went weirder and weirder as the night grew in. Monica could tell they were pretty drunk by then; they had already discussed the political situation of the state and had a cat versus dog argument, and now had closed in on a moment of not-so-subtle introspection. Their drunken giggles dulled out the TV sound, somewhat.

"You know," Monica let out a hiccup, and pointed at the screen, "that's Drew Barrymore. Rachel, she told Rachel, Rachel – she told Jean Claude Van Damme that I wanted to have a threesome with him and Drew Barrymore!"

Chandler guffawed aloud, the beer can shaking in his hand, "I know, ha, she told me."

"She told you too!"

"Yeah, she told me."

"I – I can't remember what I was gonna say, Chandler."

"Me neither, me neither, Mon."

That shut them up for a few while – just for a little while – until a car chase began on the screen and both of them toppled with peals of laughter again.

"I don't even know why I found it funny!" cried Monica as she wiped her leaking tears.

"Shh, Mon, you'll wake up your sleeping big tree in the room."

"My _what_?"

"Your Richard."

The ringing noises in her head resisted all the thinking as she tried to rack her brains. She laughed a little, never bothered with why, and concentrated upon Chandler's question again. Chandler. He was getting married! Now, how the hell did that happen? She chuckled. Wait, what Chandler question. He never asked a question. Man, she was _so_ drunk.

"What's so funny?" He asked while joining the party, his eyes reddened and glazed under the dim light.

"Are you crying, Chandler?"

"What, no, I'm just drrrunk."

"Ohhh. Me too." She suddenly remembered the answer to Chandler's question was that her big sleeping tree decided to sleep in his office since he got an emergency call after their dinner at the Plaza. Too bad nobody ever needed fine dining at 3 pm in the night. She somewhy found that string of random thought hilarious. Also, Chandler was getting married.

"You know," he broke into her trance, his voice all serious, "I'm getting cold feet."

"I told you to not hang your feet down the couch –"

"No, no. Not cold feet _. Cold feet_."

"Ohh," Monica tried on a drunken pensive face to go with his state of mind, "Oh, no, no. You can handle it. My boy's all grown up now."

"Ya think?"

"Yeah, handle is your middle name – middle – middle part of our first, first name. Isn't it?"

"I guess. Aw, Mon, I love you."

She giggled awkwardly. "Aww, snap."

"What?"

"Nah... nothing." She gave him a goofy smile instead.

He nudged her curiously. "Oh, c'mon. Tell me! I can handle it, handle's my middle name!"

"Um, okay," she muttered, as she smacked her lips and shook the empty beer can into her mouth for the last few drops, "I just remembered I ... I had a smally small crush on you in high school, you know when you had that ridiculous hair and played that clarinet... ha, before I began to hate you."

"You hated me? Wow, figures how I got my freshly laundered pants soaked in marinara sauce when I left them with Ross's."

She burst out laughing again. "That was yours?! I thought that was Ross's!"

"Hmm, interesting." He rolled his eyes so hard it might've had turned inside out.

"It's truuuue!" She elbowed him in the ribs.

"Ow, my heart aches anyway, but ow ow," he groaned, inducing another fit of laughter, "The only consolation, however, will beee the – the fact that I might be the first you ever considered giving your – your fruit to –"

" _Fruit_?!"

" –Flower, flower was it? Flower it was."

"How d'you know about the flower?!"

"Rachel talks, milady." Monica gasped dramatically. Rachel. She first spilled the ring beans, brought the engagement cat out of the bag. And now this. Monica drawled on, struggling to copy the mafia tone she just watched on the screen. Mafias and car chases. They had never realized they possibly switched the channels. "That one bridesmaid is dead. And no, eww!"

"Okay, okay, no Chan Chan Man for you, this couch is mine and why don't you run to your room to your Giving Tree!"

"Whaaaaat?"

He yawned and slumped into her lap. "I don't know. You neverrr ask a drunk man." Monica was sure he drifted to sleep within a minute. She looked at him, calmly breathing, curled up in the blanket, his head snuggling for space on her lap. He looked so adorable. She still couldn't believe this moron was going to get married. But then, so was she. Lives were about to change. Chandler was right; maybe this was the one thing they could do together. Maybe this was the _last_ thing they could do together.

A happy tear rolled down the bridge of her nose. "You and I are gonna get married. And yes," she grinned, "not to each other. Maybe we should put that on the chapel."

* * *

 **Okay guys I know I have this other story hanging but I'm not really getting a good vibe about that so basically I'm incorporating the theme of that story into this one. If you review, I promise I'll continue. So please! :)))))**

 **Note: This story takes place during season 4. The only deviations from canon is that Richard comes back to Monica's life in the beginning of season 4 and Kathy and Chandler never break up. No worries though, it's a Mondler!**


	2. Chapter 2

I

* * *

"So, Mr. Bing, tell me about it. What other physical conditions have you been experiencing?"

"Jumpiness, nervous sweating, exhaustion."

"Recurrent dreams?"

"Sometimes."

The whole idea of him coming here was stupid. His heart was pounding unnecessarily. It was a dingy cell and he was sitting in the middle on a stool, like a specimen to be examined. A lady sat in an armchair right before him, looking through a file. He tried to focus his spiralling thoughts at her appearance. There was nothing to like. She had her hair short-cropped, weird wood-rimmed glasses, a black blazer and a skirt too red to be worn under bright daylight. He could feel her gaze on him. He hated the gaze. It was the way someone would look if their cereal bowl had a worm in it. Chandler clenched his fists. He was sweating again. The hot bulb light in the cramped cell didn't help.

"Mr. Bing, are you listening to me?"

"Frankly? No," he answered bitterly, "Can I have a cigarette?"

"Could you tell me by how much have you increased your cigarette intake?"

"I don't think so. And what kind of sentence is _that_? Are you a machine?" He took a deep breath to calm down. His passive-aggression kept on popping up now and then these days.

Nothing whatsoever changed the cold stupor the woman had on her face. She was probably all too used to the drama. "Could you recall the incident, at least?"

"I told you, I don't think so," he said, in a much gentler tone this time, "Please try to understand."

"I am, Mr. Bing," she replied, "Maybe you could tell me about your childhood?"

"Look," he exhaled, getting to his feet and searching the floor for his office briefcase before he located it at the foot of the armchair, "This is not working. I'm sorry I wasted your time. I'll make sure you receive the payment though. Now if you don't mind, I have a memorial service to attend."

The woman nodded slowly, as she settled the file at the foot of the chair. "Very well, Mr. Bing. You sure are welcome if you mind returning. In the meantime I'll ask you to spare some time to think about your equation with your friends. Especially Monica Geller, if I may say so."

"If you may say so," Chandler mimed, cruelly mocking her monotone as he stormed out of the door.

* * *

Chandler walked along the pavement aimlessly. He lit a cigarette, took a long fulfilling drag and crushed the rest under the shoe, torn between taking the subway and hailing a cab. It was a cab eventually; he was slightly lost as he climbed in – but assuming the fact the taxi began to move without question, he probably did tell the driver the address he was supposed to reach.

It wasn't a long ride, just a few meandering turns and there they were, right in the middle of Manhattan, in front of a sombre-looking apartment complex that already had a heavy number of cars parked. He paid the cabbie and aimed for the backyard, where the gathering was supposed to be, or so he remembered.

He looked up. It was a gloomy, cloudy, polluted sky.

He bumped into the group soon, a quietly muttering huddle of black-clad people with an occasional dash of colour. In the extreme corner he could see Jack Geller, staring into nowhere, a wine glass in his hand. Then there were Ross and Rachel, talking, probably arguing, he didn't care enough right then.

Somebody put a hand on his shoulder. He winced. After a split-second of a battle with himself, he turned. It was Joey. A few yards away was Phoebe, doing virtually nothing, so Chandler was sure she had a worried ear over the conversation. Chandler wondered how unapproachable he had made himself within a week.

"You okay, man?" Joey began.

"I'm fine."

Joey looked concerned. "How did it go with the therapist?"

"Awful. Awful. She almost asked me how much tar I might've bottled up in my lungs."

Joey smiled a painful smile. "She isn't entirely wrong, is she? You've finished up tons of cartons within the few days."

"I know. I might as well die," he began to walk away.

"Chandler, Chandler wait," Joey trailed after him, "I'm not done yet. I wanted to talk to you about something."

He paused unexpectedly, "Go on."

"It's about Kathy."

"What about Kathy?"

"Look, you have to talk to her. I know how the whole thing took a toll on you, but she's worried sick. Her wedding was called off, too. You gotta remember that. This thing – everything – isn't fair on her either."

"I know," Chandler sighed. He almost felt himself going weak at his knees, like a sudden drop in blood pressure. Joey steadied him, "You wanna sit, Chan?"

"I'm okay," he persisted, and then continued, "I can't talk to her, Joey. I don't feel the same anymore."

"You're sayin' you don't love her anymore?"

"No, no. It's like," Chandler paused and searched for words, "I'm changed. I'm too bloody ashamed."

"Of what? How was _any_ bit of what happened your fault? You gotta stop the whole blaming yourself thing I tell ya!"

"You don't understand. You won't understand."

Joey folded his arms in a kind of defiance Chandler had never really seen in him before. "Then make me understand."

Chandler found his temper rising. Why was Joey being so unreasonable? "Okay," he started, seething under his breath, "How hard is it? Can you really, _really_ , picture Kathy and me running into the evening sun while Monica's whole life is falling apart? Can you?"

"Chandler, I didn't –"

"– Can you see us honeymooning at the beach while she's gulping down sleeping pills?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean this way. I'm sorry. I really am."

"Good for you," snapped Chandler, immediately regretting it.

"But, Chandler," Joey's comforting hand was on his shoulder again, "Maybe you should give your therapist another chance? Another session at least?"

"I don't know, Joe –"

"For us. For Monica?" He pleaded.

Against his will, he found his therapist's last words reverberating against his ears. "Okay," he uttered forcefully. Joey patted on his back and stuck to him throughout the gathering, growing more awkward and uncomfortable as the programme progressed and Chandler withdrew into his bitter, sarcastic shell. Soon Phoebe joined in, and Chandler watched the two of them attempt to chit-chat over the most random things possible.

The next person to step onto the podium to speak was Ross. He adjusted the stack of papers before him, cleared his throat and looked at his audience. His eyes lingered on the three of them a little longer than it did on others, before he began, "Dr. Burke was an exceptionally nice man..."

Chandler turned his back, struggling to shut out his ears. He headed back to the pavement. He wanted to go home.

"Where're you goin'?" Joey called out after him.

"I think I'll be off," he mumbled quietly, "So, Monica didn't come, huh?"

Phoebe blurted in the middle. "Oh yes, her morning sickness got worse. And also, you know."

Chandler screwed his eyebrows. "What morning sickness?"

Joey and Phoebe tried not to glance at each other. Joey scratched behind his ear evading Chandler's eye, and Phoebe sipped on her wine pretending to process the question. Chandler gesturing them to speak only made them freeze further. Eventually Phoebe gave in.

"Monica's three months pregnant. Look, she didn't tell us either, we just –"

"Okay," Chandler cut her off mechanically, while he felt a ripping hole through his chest. He made his way to hail another cab. Nobody stopped him this time.

* * *

"So, Mr. Bing, could you tell me by how much have you increased your cigarette intake?"

"I did happen to have taken a lot lately. It helps me calm down."

"Hmm. Maybe you could tell me about your childhood?"

"I didn't have a great one."

"Any traumatic incident that you can remember?"

"A particular Thanksgiving."

"What had happened?"

"My parents told me they're about to get a divorce, and that my father was sleeping with the houseboy."

The bulb was just as hot, the cell was just as dingy, and the stool just as uncomfortable as he remembered. The woman's gaze was just the same, the same weird wood-rimmed glasses, short-cropped hair, and this time, a skirt too blue. However, as much as he would like to deny, the conversation right then did help lifting off a certain weight from his chest.

The next question came with an unprecedented weight that almost physically pushed him off the stool. "So can you recount the incident this time?"

Chandler breathed in, almost furiously. "I don't know which part of being an armchair psychiatrist requires asking the patient to relive the nightmare."

"Mr. Bing, I need to –"

"No, really," he hopped up to his feet, no briefcase this time, "I think I'll be out of your sight. You might not see me again for a long, long time."

* * *

By the time Joey woke up the next day, Chandler was gone. Joey rubbed his eyes and briskly paced around the living room with a toothbrush. He double-checked Chandler's room – who knew, maybe Chandler had rolled down the bed and ended up underneath. Nothing noticeable had occupied the room, except for that stinking coffee cup which lay there for three days now, and the half-empty bottle of sleeping pills bought only the day before yesterday. It burned his heart to look at it; so much so, he stiffened his jaw and took it away with him as he left the room. He couldn't watch his best friend crumble before his eyes this way.

Soon he changed into his regular shirt and trousers and strolled to Apartment 20. He noticed the office briefcase toppled beside the foosball table, so wherever Chandler was, he definitely hadn't gone back to work.

Rachel, Phoebe and Ross were already there when he knocked in. Ross was reading the newspaper, Rachel slurping cereals and Phoebe blankly staring at the ceiling. The silence was uncomfortable, but then talking would've been even more.

"Hey," said Joey.

"Hey," they all replied, somewhat relieved that someone came in and broke the anxious tension.

"Anyone seen Chandler?"

"Not since morning," whispered Ross.

"And, um, Monica?"

"Hasn't left her room since last day."

Joey reached out for the cereal carton, grabbed a bowl and pulled out the chair aggressively. "Fuck this. I hate how everything's changed." They looked up, scandalised. Joey responded bluntly to the reactions, "What, someone had to say it sooner or later!"

Phoebe nodded understandingly. "I guess Joey's right."

Ross glared at them, "I don't see how complaining's gonna help though."

"Yeah, no it's not. But then, let's think of something we can do, and I think talking will be the right place to begin."

Ross relented. "Okay."

Rachel sighed, disappointedly putting her head down in her arms on the table. "It feels like only yesterday we were sitting here planning weddings."

"I know," said Phoebe, "and Monica's shutting out, Chandler's losing it. It's a mess."

"Maybe we can ask them to talk to each other," Joey suggested, "Chandler's too guilty to even enter this apartment and Monica's too depressed to notice."

Ross shook his head, "What good can come of that? We don't even how they'll feel about each other at the moment. We need to give them time, for all of it to just... _slide_."

Joey narrowed his eyes at him. "You think Monica blames him?"

Ross looked away, his tone dying down to a mere murmur, "I don't know. I never really asked."

"And do _you_ blame him?" Joey scrutinised him even as he hesitated to answer, "Ross?"

"Look," Ross began, his hands slightly raised in surrender, "It's not that. It's hard enough for me to watch Monica suffer. Maybe somewhere down the line - but no, _no_! It doesn't matter now. What's done's done, and Chandler's my best friend. When I say I'm there for him, I really am."

Joey scoffed, "Sure."

"Look, man, if you –"

"Stop it, you two!" interrupted Phoebe, "This certainly isn't what I meant when I said talking."

The four of them were interrupted by the sudden noise at the door. It was pushed ajar, and there stood Chandler, his overcoat half-soaked in the rain, his hair still dripping water. He didn't enter – just stood there – like one would in the middle of a stage, as if he had some information to deliver. The others waited with bated breath.

"I ended things with Kathy."

* * *

"What the _hell_ are you even talking about?" Joey cried out in frustration even as he trailed a dejected Chandler out in the hall. The others followed suit.

"You heard me."

"No, seriously," said Ross, "What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Chandler. I think, I _think_ it's fairly obvious what we mean. Why are you ruining your life this way?"

Chandler turned his back to them, twisting the knob to the door of his apartment. For a while he just continued to twist it, without bothering to push it open. Then he sighed, "I think, I _think_ I'm trying to not ruin anymore lives, this way."

Ross backed off, bitterly exasperated, his arms on his hip, "Yeah, like your stupid sarcasm's gonna change anything," but watching Chandler lose the urge to retort, he mellowed down his tone, "Look, the bottom line is, why are you torturing yourself?"

"Chandler, Ross's right," said Rachel, "Tell us what's going on in your head? We want to help you. Really."

Chandler wheeled a slight angle, not completely turning to them, his fists a little unclenched, maybe a little persuaded. "I wanna help myself too. I don't think any of us can. I'm going down and pulling Kathy down with me. I can't do that to her."

"But Chandler –"

This time he turned, but instead of the flaring-his-nostrils infuriated Chandler they expected, he was calm – a little devastated, sure, with the eye bags and the ruffled hair – but calm, so unnaturally calm he almost threw them off their point. "Look, guys," he said, with a little pat on Ross's shoulder, "I'm okay. I'm really not the one you need to worry about." Rachel opened his mouth to argue, but he cut her off before she could begin. "No, seriously," he continued, "Look after Monica. She's the one who needs you at the moment."

Joey raised his hands in mock-surrender and walked past Chandler to his own room, shaking his head, mumbling something inaudible. It vaguely sounded like "No one can argue with you, okay." and "What a load of horseshit."

"And maybe him too," Chandler whispered, as they heard Joey's door slam.

* * *

"So, Mr. Bing, any recent developments?"

"Yes, I've ended my engagement."

"What happened?"

"I realised I wasn't good enough for her."

"And she didn't argue?"

"She did. But I stayed put. I thought a wedding won't be the right way to go."

"Why not?"

"I... don't know. I think there may be a slight chance I realised I weirdly had feelings for someone else too. You know what, no, cut it out. I just blabbered crap. That wasn't it. It was just –"

"I see."

The dingy cell and the bright bulb light and the lone stool had become all too familiar now. Maybe the familiarity was what compelled him to gush about things he wanted to keep a secret to his grave. The woman's placid, unbreakable expression melted and she smiled a small smile of triumph. She had wanted to do this since ages – or to be more specific, last two sessions.

"I hate this," he dug his face into his palms, growing hot under the collar, "I _so_ hate this."

"You can be assured that whatever you say in this room remains between you and me, Chandler."

He looked up, surprised at the first-name address. "Yeah?"

"Yes. And are you planning to tell this person about your confused feelings?"

"Not in this life, no."

"Does this have anything to do with that incident?"

"Everything."

The woman looked at him with an added curiosity. He bit his lip and directed his focus at his shoelaces, fidgeting nervously, dedicated to dodge the next question to come.

"Chandler, I know it hurts," she reached out to pat on his hand, "but could you recall the incident once?"

He took a deep, deep breath. His head throbbed viciously. He loosened his tie-knot, settled into his uncomfortable stool, and cleared the emotion off his throat.

"It was two weeks ago. The day of my wedding, and Monica's."

* * *

 **Hello, children. Thank you for being so supportive in the reviews! I love you all, and will update really sooon, I promise. 3**


	3. Chapter 3

II

* * *

Chandler left the therapist's office at about 7 o' clock in the evening. It was slightly drizzling. He sauntered through the pavement, squeezing past the jolly pedestrians, his steps heavy and guilty. He searched his back pocket for a packet of cigarettes. He found an empty one. Annoyed, he threw it across the sidewalk, aiming at the empty trash can. The packet bounced off its edge and settled at its foot. He grumbled, and began to walk again.

That was when he saw Monica.

She was at the other side of the wide street, standing in front of a Starbucks café, waiting for someone, or probably a taxi, or maybe for the rain to stop. He watched her. She was a beautiful mess. Her hair was jumbled with the dust and the water as she pushed them back and pulled her overcoat tighter to her chest. She was a little shivering. She half-heartedly looked the right of the street and kept looking; he hid himself behind a book stall.

When she finally glanced away, he emerged. He began crossing the street without checking the signal light; it was crazy, he was drawn to her like a moth to fire. In the middle of things he had already begun imagining how he was supposed to approach her – perhaps with a smile, a slight wave, maybe a joke or a pat on the back. The rain got heavier all of a sudden. She shaded her head with her hand and rushed into the café, looking out for dirty puddles on the pavement.

He froze at his place. He was probably standing in the middle of the road; for all he knew, he lost the idea of space for a second, or just didn't care enough. It was a good thing she never saw him coming; he still didn't have the courage to look her in the eye and say he was sorry.

He wiped the rain off his face. Gravity pulled him down – his steps were all of a sudden slower, heavier. He turned and sighed, and walked home.

* * *

 **13th May, 1998. Two weeks ago.**

Chandler was watching the ridiculous office clock tick when two men burst into his room. They were the groomsmen – fancily dressed, a small flower stuck on their tux for a brooch. It took him a second to break out of his trance and notice they were _his_ groomsmen – Joey and Ross.

"Dude we've been looking all over for you!" Joey sounded hysterical.

"What in God's name are you two doing here!?" Chandler cried out, oddly alarmed.

Ross rendered him a bored gaze. "Someone named Chandler Bing just called the hotel and asked someone to pick him up from the office. And as a matter of fact, what in God's name are _you_ doing here? Your wedding's in a couple of hours!"

Chandler bumped his head against the table. He felt delirious. As many doubts he had about him calling the hotel up earlier, he sure knew that Ross's angry eyebrows weren't bluffing. He wasn't even sure if Ross's question was rhetoric or pressing, and even if he did, he didn't think he could in any way explain the living hell he had gone through in the past couple of hours, sitting in his claustrophobic cabin.

Joey patted him on the back. "C'mon, let's go."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

There was no good way to answer that question. A certain bubble of dilemma had been meandering in his head for the last few weeks and now it had burst and splattered all over his life. Did he rush into the whole wedding thing? Did he even love Kathy that way? Did he love her enough?

One Saturday afternoon and all answers were suddenly pointing to negative.

That day, he had casually trotted into Apartment 20, pulled open the fridge door and hunted for a soda, when he heard a hushed voice coming right from Monica's room.

Her door had swayed just a centimetre open as she piped apprehensively, "Who's there?"

"Messenger from the Queen. She said she might not be able to make it this Sunday," he had quipped.

"What? Chandler?" came the muffled noise again.

He had shaken his head dismissively as he walked across the space, "You okay, there?"

"I guess," she had mumbled from behind the door, "Can you come in?"

"Sure," he had pushed the door a little more and slipped in. A dewy smell had hit his face as soon as he entered; along the rows of photographs he noticed a weird wall-hanging that he vividly remembered was a parting gift from Phoebe when she moved out, and a perfectly normal bed. "Hey, what happened to the race car –"

He had stopped midway as his eyes fell on Monica. She had stood there in her wedding dress, smiling. He had watched how the satin strap delicately went around her neck. The rustle of the soft fabric somewhat made him adjust his own heated collar. It had almost looked as if she was glowing.

"Wow," he could barely spell out the words, "You look..."

"Hideous," she had laughed, then turned her back, "Can you zip this thing up?"

"Huh?" It had taken him a second to process the question. What in the name of Christ was wrong with him? This was Monica. M-o-n-i-c-a, if he needed to spell it out. The obsessive clean-freak who lived across the hall, whom he had known since college.

"Chandler?" Monica had insisted.

"Oh, oh yes," Chandler had snapped out of it, and shoved it in a part of his mind he would never want to approach again. He began to pull the zip up, careful not to make skin contact with her back, and maybe even try and not look directly at it. "So, er, what's this fabric, is this, like er, satin, or something?" He had never noticed he'd begun blabbing again.

"Yeah, but it's too tight around the waist. I think I might get a different one."

"Hoho, and will I get to zip that one too?"

"Nah, it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride in the wedding dress."

Chandler's heart skipped a beat. "Huh?"

She looked back at him with an impish, lopsided grin. "What, I can't make a joke?"

Chandler had suddenly, and nonetheless shockingly, found himself at a loss of words. He had given off a throaty sound and tried to make it the sound of approval, but as Monica stared at him with a raised bewildered eyebrow, he backed off. "I'll see ya later."

"What happened?"

"I – I ah, just remembered I gotta feed the duck uhm...," and he fled.

He had run through the living room, smacked the door to the apartment shut and leaned against it. What the hell had just happened? As stupid as the question was, it hadn't stopped eating him alive for the next few days. He had flinched when Monica stuck a spoon in his mouth asking for an opinion on the salmon dish, squeezed out of her line of sight with every chance he got, jumped up in alarm when she casually snuggled close while watching the stupid action movie that Joey brought. Others thought they were all pre-wedding nerves.

And then, when he couldn't make a single joke about the wedding anymore, he knew something was dangerously wrong.

He had thought about it. A lot, perhaps a couple of sleepless days and nights. And there couldn't have been a time more inappropriate to have the epiphany.

He was probably in love with Monica. He would like to stick with the word " _probably_ ".

He wondered how much of it made sense. He had watched her with a dropped jaw when she came down the stairs back on that Thanksgiving day, he had jokingly offered to make babies with her, he had often winked at her when no one else laughed over his joke, he had pestered her throughout the weekend at Montauk over why she wouldn't date a guy like him. It all had meant nothing. Or did it?

The realisation twisted his insides together. He was wrecking himself. There he was, with Kathy, who was an amazing and beautiful woman, who loved him enough to marry him. And all he could think about was how... she wasn't Monica.

Monica. The clean-freak next door. The mother hen of the gang. His best friend. The girl who was to marry a sophisticated moustached doctor the same day. Why did Monica even accept his stupid idea of having the weddings together, he'd never know. And now it hurt even more.

He crumbled under the whirlwind inside his head as he sat smoking in his office for the last two hours. He didn't know if he could marry Kathy. He didn't know if he could go there feeling like he was on the wrong chapel. He didn't know if he could watch Monica getting married away. It was all a big, blundering mess.

Or maybe he should. Maybe he should swallow and bury his doubts to the grave. It wasn't as if Monica loved him back. And she probably never will. Meanwhile, he would lose all that he had with Kathy, and break her heart on what would be the best day of her life.

He was clueless. And that was when Ross and Joey pounded in.

"Chandler? Chandler!" Joey waved before his face to break the trance, "We're runnin' out of time."

He ran his fingers through his hair and thudded his forehead against the table again. "I'm a horrible, horrible person."

"What's wrong?"

Chandler considered the question for a while. "I'm scared," he lied.

Ross rubbed his shoulder comfortingly. "Chandler, I know the pressure's too much. But I totally believe you can do this."

He shook his head. Ross would never understand. None of the two would.

"Listen, it's not only about you," Ross continued, "You have to go back. Remember how much you love Kathy. You owe her."

Ross was right. Chandler scratched the back of his head. He might've been having his own dilemmas, but he couldn't do this to Kathy. He couldn't picture her walking down the aisle and waiting, only to know he'd never arrive. She would be utterly humiliated, devastated. Maybe he should go back. It would be all for good.

"Alright," Chandler let out a long sigh, "I'll come with you."

* * *

He took a shower and jogged around inside the hotel room as Joey helped him put on the tuxedo. The dizziness and nausea just wouldn't go. He stared at himself in the mirror – his hair was still dishevelled, his eye bags were so large it almost made him look like a member of the _Addams_ _Family_ , and he was dreadfully scared.

"Hey, you want coffee or something?" asked Joey. Chandler headed towards the door instead, and Joey instinctively blocked his way, "Whoa, where you goin'?"

Chandler gave him a death stare. "I'm not gonna run away again. I just need some fresh air."

"Oh. Okay," he relented as Chandler slipped past him and walked out of the room. He trotted some distance in the hallway before he lit a cigarette and took a long, heavenly drag, "Fresh air."

He felt empty. Only if he could burst and cry. Everything got so muddled he couldn't even identify the problem he originally had anymore.

He loved Kathy. He could iterate it a thousand times. He could go to the top of a tower and scream it aloud. And as undeserved as it could get, Kathy loved someone like him back.

Perhaps, he was having difficulties in coming to terms with the fact that Monica was getting married. Maybe he had misinterpreted it all. It was an end-of-an-era event, after all. Perhaps all he needed was closure. From Monica.

He immediately began searching for her room. He had to be insane to even consider this though, he thought. He wasn't probably even sure why he wanted to meet her in the first place. However, that didn't stop him. "I love Kathy. _Kathy_. I proposed to her and I'm going to keep her happy for the rest of her life," he kept on mumbling to himself. All he needed was closure from Monica. A straight-out rejection, maybe a slap on the face, to make him see sense again.

Soon enough, he found her room. His heart throbbed viciously. He was about to commit something incredibly offensive. He pushed open the door. His eyes scanned around the room – there were Jack and Judy Geller sitting on the couch, Rachel was scrambling through the vanity kit, and then there was Monica, who was fidgeting in a gorgeous white gown. She couldn't have looked more beautiful.

She saw him in the dressing mirror and turned in surprise. Then broke into a wide smile. "Look who's back!"

So everyone knew he had taken off. Chandler suddenly felt all eyes on him. He didn't care to notice at the moment whether anyone was judging. He trotted across the space to Monica. "Look, Mon –"

"So how're you feeling now?" she piped excitedly, "You look terrible! Did you take a shower? You haven't slept at all, have you?"

Chandler tried to slow her down, "I'm okay, Monica. I came to talk to you."

 _Don't do it, don't do_ _it_. That voice wouldn't stop screaming inside his head.

"The weirdest thing happened," said Monica, "Your dad called to tell you he was in the city. I think he's got to know it's your wedding and he wasn't invited."

" _Ahh_ , drop it. If my dad drops in wearing a little black drag, no one's gonna look at the brides. Shoot, that isn't the point. I need to talk to you."

She folded her arms and firmly asserted, "I think you should call him."

"We can handle all that later, Monica –"

"Later? The wedding's in an hour!"

"Look," Chandler's patience began to run thin, "I need to talk to you about something very, very important."

Monica dropped the argument as soon as he made a dead serious face, but for some reason she assumed he was only messing with her. She beamed, "So, Richard's talk wasn't good enough, huh?"

He blinked confusedly. "Umm, what?"

"What what?"

"Richard what?"

"Richard," she replied in a matter-of-fact tone, "After you called the hotel, I called Richard and sent him down to your office to help you with your cold feet thing. He's doing it twice, after all. So, did he convince you, huh?"

"Monica, Richard never came to my office."

"What are you talking about?" she frowned, a tad hysterical. Typical Monica.

"Relax, Mon," he squeezed her shoulders, "I guess it slipped out of his mind."

"Well, he's gonna get a piece of _my_ mind after the wedding."

Chandler gave a half-chuckle at that, before Monica started again. "I saw Kathy. She's like the most beautiful bride I've ever seen."

His heart began pounding as it reminded him of the thing he originally came to ask about. He cleared his throat, stared at the happily unaware Monica, and tried to put out a cohesive sentence.

"Mon, I –"

This time Joey butted in. He had come hurtling into the room, panicky and sweaty as if he had seen a monster in the closet. He stumbled towards Chandler and Monica, unable, like Chandler, to stutter out a cohesive sentence, but perhaps for very different reasons. Chandler sensed something was wrong – Joey wasn't the person to freak out over a minister's absence or a sauce stain on the tie.

"What happened, Joe?" Chandler asked, his eyebrows furrowed, trying to read Joey's sweat-clammed face.

"What's going on?" Rachel could see it too.

He panted incoherently, "Mon – Chandler – come down at once – there's police – _just_ come downstairs!"

With it, Joey left. All of them scrambled downstairs at his call; they weren't sure what he meant, but the word 'police' left some serious connotations. Following Joey's trail, they hurried towards the hall. The space was chaotic; the guests were murmuring loud, some were crying – then there was Ross talking to a policeman, his face as panicky as Joey's was. Chandler clasped Monica's hand and made his way through the frenzied crowd.

"Ross, what's going on?" He cried at the top of his voice.

Ross looked at them, almost on the verge of breaking down. For a moment Chandler thought Monica's brother was trying hard to steal his eyes away from his sister. "Ross?" Chandler persisted.

Ross gazed at him with a pain that made Chandler wish he'd never asked the question. "There's been an accident. It's Richard. The – the car crashed down the bridge."

Beside him, Chandler felt Monica sliding to the floor.

* * *

 **30th May, 1998. Present day.**

It was 1 o' clock at night when Chandler knocked on the door to his apartment. He was slightly drunk, but well in his senses; he liked it this way – this way he was sober enough but his head would be too heavy to ponder about stuff. As he opened the door, he saw Joey on the barcalounger, staring intently into the TV. It was the stock market channel, so he had probably just lost the remote again.

"Hey," said Chandler.

Joey turned his head in surprise. It was the first time in these weeks he had elicited such a normal response from Chandler. "Hey," Joey smiled goofily, "I saved you some pizza."

"Yeah, okay," Chandler relented. Joey must've been wondering how he caught Chandler in such an impeccably good mood.

"Dude, look what I found under my drawer today," Joey held out a photograph, grinning, "It's a picture of the two of us kissing on New Year's Eve. Damn Ross and his camera."

"Ha," Chandler let out a half-hearted laugh, before he slumped on the couch. He glanced at the picture once; it seemed like it happened an age ago; the laughs and cheers and regular coffees had dwindled somewhere into nothingness now. How he wished he could bring them back. He sniffed, "Can you talk to me, Joe?"

Joey nodded understandingly, then came up to the couch and settled beside Chandler. "Anything you need, man. What d'ya wanna talk about?"

"Just talk," Chandler managed to mumble. Since the visit to the psychiatrist this afternoon, he sensed the bitter shell he had built around himself was crumbling.

"Chandler?"

He buried his face into his palms as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. "That day you guys found me in the office, I wasn't there because I was scared. I was confused."

"I – I don't get it."

"I had realised I had long fallen in love with Monica."

Joey almost jumped back in shock. He nudged Chandler, desperately wanting to believe he heard it wrong. "Are you serious?"

"I didn't know what to do," Chandler continued to murmur without adhering to any kind of reaction, "I didn't know what it was. It was killing me. I eventually thought marrying Kathy won't be fair to her. I loved her so much, I couldn't ruin her life this way. Then I decided I would; my running away would be ruining her life anyway."

"Chandler, what are you talking about?"

The story didn't change much. It was still his fault, as he believed; if he hadn't run away, whatever the reason was, Richard wouldn't have been in that accident, things would've been so much better. But every time he divulged that singular detail, he felt a huge rock lifted off his chest. "I practically ruined everybody. And it's so much harder for me now, to watch Monica this way. Trust me, Joe, I didn't wish for any of this. I didn't wish to fall in love with Monica. I _didn't_!"

Joey rubbed his back, and sighed, "I understand, Chandler. But first things first, you have to stop blaming yourself. You have to."

"And how in the living hell am I supposed to do that?" Chandler helplessly watched his voice crack with emotion.

Joey gave him what he needed – a warm, prolonged hug. Chandler dug his face at the crease of Joey's neck and completely broke down; it was like an uncontrollable wave of emotion – he had never cried this way before, spouted everything that had pent up inside him for months.

"Richard died. Because of me," he sobbed. Every word felt like a wire wrenching through his heart. "And now I know I deprived a kid of its father."

"Chandler, nothing will come out of it you do this to yourself," said Joey, unusually firm, "I don't know if this counts as anything, but you know they never found his body – er, him, who knows he might just come back. We can hope, can't we?"

In any other occasion, Chandler would've scoffed sarcastically at Joey for being so hopelessly naïve, telling him life didn't work like his soap opera, but right then, he too desperately wanted to believe.

"And in any case," Joey continued, "I think you should go talk to Monica."

"No," Chandler replied automatically, "She can't even look at me."

"That's rubbish," said Joey, "Look, she needs to be loved right now. By all of us." Chandler stared across the table, his expression softening. Joey was somewhat right; Chandler couldn't ignore her forever – he had to talk to her, patch things up with her, ask for her forgiveness, and maybe accept it if she decided to never talk to him again.

"And you know what," Joey spoke again, what sounded like an apprehensive advice, "If you really think you deprived the kid of a father, then be the father."

* * *

 **Hi guys.**

 **Review please! :-)**

 **Bye guys.**


	4. Chapter 4

III

* * *

"Gunther, can I get a decaf?"

Joey placed his cup on the table and slumped on the usual couch in the coffeehouse, beside Rachel, who happened to be too engrossed in a fashion magazine to notice. Chandler's confession last night had taken a toll on him, so much so he didn't even feel like making conversation with Rachel at the moment.

It seemed Rachel could feel the palpable tension too. She made a humming noise, "So... how's it going?" Joey looked at her, bewildered; he couldn't put two and two together; he had a reason to be on awkward terms with people, but he wasn't sure if she necessarily had the same.

"Nothin' really, I was waiting for a call-back actually," he muttered absent-mindedly. Both were trying way too hard to steer away from the Chandler-Monica topic. "So..."

But there was something Rachel couldn't hold back anymore. She looked physically constipated, reddening along the cheeks, stealing glances at him. Eventually, she burst out, "Joey, I have to tell you something."

"What is it?"

With the permission, she was all hysterics. "Oh my God, you won't believe it, it's so huge – last day I thought I'd go over – I needed some batteries – I ended up in Chandler's room and –"

"– No, no," Joey cut her off midway, "I can't take anymore secrets."

"But Joey –"

"You're not supposed to be _gossiping_! And especially not over something like this!" he adamantly stuffed his fingers into his ears. To be honest, he didn't even have a tiny, petite, wee bit of curiosity to know what she was exploding to spill. Rachel grunted in exasperation, "Okay, okay. But if you found out on your own, it won't necessarily be, you know, bringing this big gigantic cat out of the bag."

His eyes narrowed into a suspicious gaze, but he eventually relented. "Okay."

"Okay," she settled back into the couch uncomfortably, almost comically play-acting to be into the magazine (so much so she didn't quite realise she was holding it upside down). Joey scoffed at her.

She hummed again, cautiously, as if treading on a rope. "So, Chandler's been avoiding Monica, huh? Have you talked to him about it?"

He felt a chill running down his spine on hearing her words. Almost impulsively, he blurted out, "Do you know something?"

"Do _you_ know something?"

Joey knew he wasn't a pro at genuine fake emotions without a script and a pair of tweezers in his pocket. Even so he went for the breezy, quite dramatically. "I may know something."

"I may know something too."

They squirmed in their seats uncomfortably, apprehensive of each other, trying not to steal any more glances. Joey slurped on his coffee and Rachel flipped the magazine pages audibly. There was no way Rachel could have known what they talked about, could she? Was it possible that she extracted the information from Chandler's shrink? No, they usually sign an agreement to seal their lips. Maybe she overheard them last night. Even that seemed dubious. As long as one wasn't spying on them with their ear on the door through a glass, he couldn't believe their voices had travelled outside the apartment.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You don't know."

Rachel took a deep breath, and gritted her teeth. "Okay, okay. Why don't I go up there and ask him what's his real deal with Monica – and Kathy, mind you – so I could know that the thing that I know is actually the thing that I know?"

Lightning struck Joey. He almost screamed aloud, never minding the few heads in the café that turned at him. "You _know_!"

"And _you_ know!"

They almost jumped in unison; but the spur of the moment died soon and they both deflated into their seats again. Sure they knew, but the question was, what could they possibly do to stop their best friends from tumbling into the deep?

Rachel sighed. "So he's in love with Mon, huh?"

Joey nodded. "He says so. How did you get to know by the way?"

"I went to your apartment to get my lamp back," she turned a sharp eye at Joey, who gave her a sheepish lopsided grin at that, "and then I don't know – Chandler's room caught my eye – it was so messy you would think it went through a cyclone or something. Then I found his diary –"

"Crossing the line, Rach," Joey reprimanded her, before he ricocheted back to point, "he isn't even talking to his shrink but he's keeping a diary?"

"He hadn't written anything after – you know – _that_ happened. But the stuff before, I mean, can you actually believe it?"

"I know," he fell against the couch, dejected, "I still don't understand why he feels so guilty. It's not like he was driving and got Richard killed or something. It happened because it happened."

"Survivor's guilt," said Rachel, putting the magazine down on the table, "I think I'm gonna have a talk with him."

"No, no no!" Joey exclaimed, "You can't say you know."

Joey stared at her intently. The repercussions could be dangerous; it finally took Chandler two long weeks to open up, devil knew what he might do if he got to know he was smacked on the face with a betrayal right the next morning.

She considered it for a moment. Then flipped the magazine on the table and straightened out the frizzy strands of hair around her forehead, deep in thought. "Oh, okay. So what do we do?"

* * *

When there was no answer, repress it. Rachel strolled through the hallway with a big frown while what looked like one of her routine visits to Monica's apartment throughout the day. However, the scene in Monica's room caught her by surprise as soon as she stepped in.

Her room was messy. A hoard of objects ranging from the toothbrush mummified in a napkin to the dump of her evening dresses lay scattered all over the bed. More appropriately, her room was under the process of cleaning. Even more appropriately, it was under the process of _packing_.

"What's going on?" she asked, watching Monica fervently folding the clothes and stuffing them into a suitcase.

Monica looked up at her almost blankly, considered for a minute what to reply, but then sighed. "I'm out of here. At least for a while."

" _What_?"

It was a knee-jerk response on Rachel's part; she didn't mean to act so shocked. It made quite a lot of sense – the room must've become too familiar, too haunting, so much so even Rachel could sense the walls and the bathroom reeking of Richard's cologne. Monica didn't mind Rachel's reaction. It saddened Rachel a bit – Monica didn't mind anything these days.

"Where are you going, Mon?" she asked again. More tenderly, understandingly. She would return, wouldn't she? She had to. She was the glue that held them together.

Monica replied with a strange kind of dejection, "Dad called, and so I thought..."

"Oh." She tried to sound supportive, even went as far as attempting to flatten out some of the clothes (without much success). However, the answer to the next part of her question was what she was worrying about. "So, when are you coming back?"

Monica gave out the much dreaded sigh. Rachel's heart throbbed. "I don't know, Rach," said Monica, "I just need to let all of it... _slide_." Rachel couldn't help but notice how similar she sounded to her brother. Moreover, Monica looked uncomfortable. Perhaps not dwelling on the topic anymore could be the first step towards sliding.

"Mon, you're okay, right? Actually, I came to ask you whether you'd want me to move back in..."

When Richard had moved in with Monica, Rachel had to grumble and pack off her butt to somewhere else; it wasn't as if they threw her out, in fact they never said anything, but living with a really touchy-feely couple was weirdly icky. She had landed at Phoebe's place and then at Ross's, and despite the history and everything, they happened to work out things well. Maybe, too well. Sparks had been flying and leaving now would hurt. But Monica came first.

"I'm fine, Rach," she whispered, awkwardly tugging her hair behind her ear. She had never been a good liar. She rubbed her fingernails together and begun again, almost like a throwaway comment, "And, I was wondering..." Then she trailed off into an inaudible murmur.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering ... Well, everything's way too much about me lately. How's Chandler doing? Only last day I caught his sight on the other side of the road. He didn't look too good... Then he – he hid himself behind a... I don't know – is he alright?"

While she stammered through the whole thing, Rachel mind mapped back to the coffeehouse, where she and Joey blurted out secrets an hour ago. Rachel was clueless about the whole thing; both she and Joey couldn't think of a solution further than to make Chandler stop beating himself over the issue. But as Monica spoke, a surreal, almost ridiculous line of thought popped up in her head: what if, _what_ _if_ Chandler and Monica could save themselves by saving each other?

Rachel stood at the edge of the fence. Of course she couldn't speak of Chandler's feelings. Then what should she tell her?

"Well, he kind of ended things with Kathy," she muttered. Monica gasped in shock. "I know," Rachel shook her head at her reaction, "he's on his own, not listening to anybody."

"Is he okay?"

Rachel looked at her blankly. He loitered around God-knew-where in the city at nights, he remained drunk almost all the time, he hated his shrink, he smelled as if he came out of a cigarette factory, he hadn't been to work for weeks, he barely ate, and he loathed himself more than ever.

"He is fine," Rachel assured her, choking back the lump in her throat. "Here, let me help you pack."

* * *

Monica stood on the porch, waiting, the luggage at her feet. She appreciated Ross's comforting hand over the shoulder, but struggled to hold back tears. She wasn't quite sure what hit her – coming here, or leaving there.

She had an odd kind of attachment with her parents' place. The attachment wasn't very loving, it was just – _odd_. There were those brambles where she rode on Chi Chi, and the courtyard where Ross held his make-believe tea parties after slipping into one of mother's evening dresses. But this was the same place where Ross's trophies lay glittering in the cases while her room had been turned into a gym.

She loved Apartment 20. It was an adventure. It was where she first met Phoebe, as they soon snuck off to unsuccessful escapades of avoiding their pretentious neighbour, Amanda (or A-mah-nda, like she preferred). It was where Chandler came in like a breath of goofy, fresh sarcastic air after the A-mah-nda rode off to England on her fake-accent horse. It was where she had this embarrassing first encounter with Joey and his misinterpretation of the commonest of common stuff. It was where Rachel invited herself to live, and it probably was the best thing that ever happened.

But most importantly, it was where she and Richard first kissed, shared their vulnerabilities, decided to marry. It was where she told him she was carrying his child. He was so happy. They were so happy.

Apartment 20 was a happy place. Probably that was what made it all the more haunting.

The door swung open. It was Jack, wearing his usual jacket, the typical curious smile replaced with a depressed, pensive face. He pulled the luggage in, and spread his arms for an inviting hug. "Oh, sweetheart."

That was it. That was all she needed. Monica threw herself in the embrace and cried.

"I'm good, daddy."

"I know, honey," he rubbed her back gently, "We prepared your room. Wanna see?"

She raised her head in surprise. From the corner of her eye, she saw Judy leaning against the wall, her eyes glistening against the light. Monica stammered, "Wha-what about the gym?"

"Gym?" Jack made a noise that somewhat sounded like "pffft", "What'll two sixty-year olds do with a gym? For me, I think I can just run up and down the basement stairs."

Monica smiled through her tears. The small gestures meant the world.

* * *

"Monica?"

Monica looked up to find Judy standing at the door with the dinner tray. She stumbled up and wiped off the saliva that had trailed out of the corner of her mouth after she had dozed off against the glass window while staring into the darkness. The growing discomfort of pregnancy and the added insomnia made sure she drifted off whenever she got a minute.

"Mom, you didn't have to –"

"It's fine, Monica. I'm glad to," she said, her tone indecipherable. Wasn't too cold, wasn't too warm either. "I thought you'd have trouble going down the stairs."

Monica 'hmm'-ed for the lack of a better response. Judy placed the tray at the drawer table near the mirror, and then settled on the bed. "I thought I'd have a nice, good chat with my daughter," she smiled. Monica gaped back, bewildered.

"Okay." She nodded, dreading her mother might force her down the Richard territory. The very thought terrified her; she had promised herself she wouldn't think of him anymore, come whatever may.

"How are you doing, dear?"

She was still a bit confused. "I'm doing well... I guess."

"Your dad was wondering how about we spend a day out tomorrow barbecuing?"

"Uh," Monica cringed at that, "I don't think so. The smell of meat's making me nauseous."

If Monica wasn't mistaken, there was a slight twitch of muscle on her mother's face on hearing that. Judy went ahead to tuck out Monica's hair from behind her ears and graze her fingers through them – an annoying old habit of hers – and smiled. Her mother had two smiles, Monica liked one, while loathed the other. Her heart leaped to see the latter.

Eventually Judy took her hand in hers, and begun. "Monica, I hope you know what you're doing."

"What d'you mean?"

"Look, dear," Judy carried on softly, "it pains me to see you like this. I know how much you've gone through these past weeks and..."

"Mom, what is it?"

"Monica, I don't mean this in a bad way, but I don't think it's a good idea to have this baby."

Monica wasn't sure if she heard it right. She flinched, and ripped her hand out of Judy's clutch, her eyes burning with tears. "What are you even talking about?!"

Judy reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "Darling, I'm only looking out for you. Think about it. You're on your own. You're depressed. You're not eating right. You're not taking care of yourself. How do you think –"

"I _am_ taking care of myself!" Monica screamed out defensively, "I have people to take care of me!" Rachel. Phoebe. Ross. Joey. Chandler.

"Calm down, honey. If you think you have people looking after you, you're living in denial."

"I can't believe you're asking this of me."

"It's for your own good."

" _How_?!" Monica cried out, "This little thing living in me is all I have of Richard. How can I live if I have nobody to live for?"

"But you're denying the baby a normal childhood."

"You think I'm incapable of giving the baby a normal childhood?"

"Oh, Monica dear."

"Well, that doesn't sound like a no to me."

Monica was breathing fire. She felt blood rush to her head. The room was suddenly sucked out of all air. The silence was boring a hole in her chest. The conversation seemed unreal. All she needed was a little support, a little love. How _goddamn_ hard was it? It was all Monica's fault. She had her expectations a tad too high. It had escaped her how all these four walls ever brought on were disappointments after disappointments.

Judy sighed, neatly folded a napkin beside the dinner tray, and left without another word. Monica slumped to the floor. Crouched into a ball. It seemed like a fall into a dark, unending abyss. Her heart thumped in her chest. She sobbed.

No, she would survive. She wanted to.

"I love you, you little bundle of joy," she whispered, hiccupping through the words, looking down, rubbing her small bump, "You are all that matters to me now."

* * *

Before the clock struck midnight, she was back to the burrow.

Monica somehow stumbled up the stairs, and stood panting against the Apartment 20 door she left this morning. Soon Ross emerged, carrying her suitcase, a rather disconcerted look on his face. He intently stared at the floor while she fished into her purse for her keys.

"You're not going to talk to me, are you?" she mumbled under her breath.

He hesitated. "You were too harsh on them, Mon."

" _I_ was harsh on _them_?"

"I'm not getting into this again."

Monica grumbled as she pulled the door ajar. They trotted in. A familiar homely smell – a weird combination of citrus and cake – smacked her nostrils like a gust of wind in the living room. She pushed the suitcase aside at a corner, then fell back on the couch.

"Are you okay?" asked Ross. She bit her lip and nodded. He was giving off bizarre vibes – he was annoyed and concerned all the same.

"You must be tired, Ross. Do you want me to make you brownies?"

"Nah, I think I'm good," he said, clearing his throat, fixing his gaze at random objects to avoid eye-contact, before he turned to the door. "It's 11 at night; I think I'll be off."

"Drive safe."

"Yeah."

"And I'm sorry."

He wheeled at her again, and smiled. It couldn't have been more forced. "I know."

She curled back into the couch as she heard the door slam, gritting her teeth. Why was Ross so upset? She couldn't have stayed at a place that made her feel thoroughly unwelcome by the minute. She couldn't have stayed in the same room with a person who wished she had gotten rid of the baby.

Maybe Ross was simply cranky from dragging her luggage around. She sighed. She wished she could've done that herself. Relinquishing control hurt physically.

She yawned. She felt sleepless. Helpless. She was sweating profusely. She wondered if Chandler and Joey were still up. It had been long. Probably this had been a good wake-up call. To stick around people who would stick around for her.

There was a sudden knock on the door.

She gathered herself and strutted towards it, unlocked the door chain and grabbed the knob. Damn it if it was Ross again; she was not going to spare any of his twisted justifications this time...

"Chandler?"

He stood there, his body against the door frame, gasping for breath. He whispered something incoherently, something that sounded like "Joey?". He probably hadn't realised he had knocked on the wrong door. But that wasn't what made Monica send a squeal of panic through the ceiling; there was a bruise on his cheekbone and he was bleeding profusely from the head.

"Chandler, what _happened_?!" She cried out, pulling him in. He muttered something again, his eyes half-closed and knees buckling in pressure. He crumbled on her, slid to the floor and slumped over like a limp rag doll, unconscious.

" _Chandler_!" Monica fell on her knees beside him, in frantically nudging his arm, her voice cracking with tears, "Wake up!" She sensed her fingers numbing. She must call emergency – and Joey – and look for bandages – and do something about the blood that had soaked all the way down his shirt –

"Mon," it was him mumbling again, struggling to keep his eyes open, "Mon..."

"I'm here," she clasped his hand in hers, her eyes welling up, "I'm here, Chandler."

Rachel had lied. He was _not_ okay.

* * *

 **Okay, this is a pretty late update. Have patience with me for, like, another month and I'll be good I promise. Plus, I think I'm pretty much done with the angst so the next chapters will be happier. And I myself am quite fed up about the Richard hangover, so I feel you guys :P but trust me, it's crucial groundwork for the story. Until then, review! :D**


	5. Chapter 5

IV

* * *

Chandler wearily blinked open into a room that smelled like sanitizers. He tried to raise his head when a massive surge of pain crossed through it like a white-hot wire. He looked around – it was a hospital room; white and blue curtains, dim lights, a ticking clock that struck half-past two, his blood-soaked collar and a turban of bandages on the head, and Monica dozing over at the easy chair. What was going on?

He reached out to nudge Monica awake. "Mon?"

She stirred, then looked up, and took a while to process the whole thing. "You're awake." She wiped her eyes groggily, and unexpectedly snapped aloud, "What the _hell_ had happened, Chandler? You scared the crap out of me!"

He considered her question and tried to rack his brains. His head hurt. The memory of the night was a little blurry – he had been definitely drunk again – he could revive some in flashes – it was a shady alley somewhere in Manhattan – he was mugged and the guy hit him on the head with something – something – yes, the blunt end of a gun (a detail he'd carry to the grave lest he wanted his friends freaking their wits out) – he was dizzy and he somehow managed to get back to the building – he knocked on a door – and that was all he could remember.

"I was, er, mugged," he whispered, even as Monica gasped, "Oh my god."

"It's okay, it's not a big deal," he shook his head casually.

"Not a big deal? _Not_ a big deal?" she cried, "Joey wasn't home and I wasn't supposed to be either. Where would you have gone?"

"I... had keys." He replied tactlessly. Monica glared. He bit his lip in guilt. It was then it struck him – he was talking to Monica. And effortlessly so. Well, talk about advantages of getting mugged, he thought cheekily. "I'm sorry, Mon, and also..."

"You got three stitches on the forehead, and the doctor x-rayed you for a probable broken rib," she didn't appear to be listening to him at all, "And you've bled a lot too – I gotta buy some painkillers before we get home – I've left others messages, they must be on the way –"

"Mon, Mon, Mon," he had to squeeze her shoulder to stem her anxious rant, "I'm okay. Relax."

She shut up and sighed. "You better be."

"And thanks. For saving my life."

He received another death stare in return. She grumbled in mock-anger, " _Thanks_? That's what it has come down to?" He chuckled. She smiled back.

"You know you should get some rest too. This can't be good for the baby."

If he wasn't mistaken, he noticed something like a wince going through her body at the mention of the baby. Something was up – he remembered Joey telling him she left for her parents this morning – but before he could prod further regarding the subject, Joey himself came in bursting through the door.

"What happened?!" He cried out, a treble of panic in his voice as he saw his bandages, "How did _that_ happen?" His eyes met Chandler's and Chandler looked away; he knew another humongous lecture was coming.

"I got mugged," Chandler spoke lowly, all of a sudden engrossed in the calendar hooked on the wall.

Joey shuddered, and then folded his arms. "What? Where?"

Chandler pursed his lips together sheepishly. He glanced at Monica for help, but they seemed to be ganging up on him. He continued guiltily, "I ... don't remember. I was drunk." And with it he squinted, waiting for the outburst.

Joey took a deep breath, "I can't believe this. What is the _matter_ with you?"

Monica tried to lighten the situation before it got out of hand, "Joey –"

"You've asked this question many a time, haven't you?" Chandler snapped. Softly, but nonetheless a snap. Joey raised his eyebrows at his audacity, when he sighed. "You're right, Joe. I was totally out of the line. I was irresponsible."

"Yeah, you were," Joey went on, "And if next time ..."

"I know."

"You should know. If you keep up this thing tryin' to find innovative ways to get mugged, or end up in a dumpster or with a ticket or..."

"Joe, can we keep the rest for some other day because my head's really hurting right now," he moaned, adjusting his pillow. He turned at Monica again; it seemed like a kid complaining. "When can we go home?"

"Joey said innovative," she let out a little laugh, "So, I'm guessing soon."

Joey gave the two of them a stony sideways stare, his arms akimbo and chin up, as if thinking of a rightful punishment for the partners in crime. But then he relented, breaking into a grin. "Yeah, you'd always take his side."

* * *

It wasn't as simple as that. Within another hour, Rachel and Ross had arrived – as of right then, Ross had jogged ahead to hail cabs, Rachel was holding Chandler (who, by the way, was trying too hard to acknowledge he wasn't in any pain, much to everybody's annoyance, even more so because his occasional stifled groans told otherwise) as they stumbled down steps to the entrance. Monica and Joey had stayed at the reception desk, clearing out with the prescriptions and medicines. Monica thought she saw a strange concern in Joey's eyes. It was less of a concern, more like frustration. More like terror. She wondered if this was a good time to ask.

Something was going on. There was something they weren't telling her. She looked at him. He stared down at his watch and yawned.

"Joey?"

"Yeah?"

She didn't know how to come about. Then decided the best way would be to just... spit it out.

"What's going on?"

"What d'ya mean?"

"Look, Joey, these furtive glances are not helping. It's enough that Rachel lied in the morning. What's going on with Chandler?"

She watched him struggle between acting oblivious and spilling out his guts. He must've had been asked this question often and apparently wasn't too good at the hiding game. But she waited while he decided; it probably wasn't so easy after all – if he indeed knew anything, he had to first disentangle through the mesh of confidence Chandler had put in him before he handed Chandler's heart out to another person.

He ran his fingers through his hair and rendered her a defeated gaze. "Oh, Mon, I don't know where to begin."

So she had been right. She clenched her fists and bit her lip and waited some more. Joey began to speak, "Everything's just – spirallin' out of control. You have no idea how scared I was when I got your message. Frankly, I had run up here expecting so much worse."

His voice cracked and his eyes glistened as he looked away. Monica felt a pang of guilt; she should've been more detailed than the garbled and panicked versions of " _Emergency... Chandler's bleeding... the paramedics took him to Beth Israel. Come ASAP!_ " that she sent to the three numbers. After a long breath, he continued.

"I've never seen him this way before. He's hardly sober, in fact I don't understand the difference anymore. He knows we're worried sick so these days he's tryin' real hard to pretend he's okay. But I know. We share a wall, _dammit_! Every night – and it's always past midnight – he goes straight to his room. I can hear noises all night long. Things fallin', bed creakin', sometimes the TV. He doesn't sleep. And if all of this isn't enough," Joey flailed his arms up in the air dramatically, "he just goes out bringin' fresh trouble for himself. One morning he just comes up to the door and says he's broken up with Kathy."

Monica choked back her tears, "Yeah, Rachel told me."

"I haven't talked to Kathy after they separated, but she hadn't tried contacting in any manner so I'm thinkin' she's through. She's given up. But I can't, Monica. He's my stupid brother and it's killin' me."

It touched and stabbed her the same when she heard him address Chandler as his brother. She reached out to rub his arm comfortingly. She didn't think she could bear listening to the rest of the ordeal.

She remembered the last time Chandler visited her room on the day of the weddings, right before the police crashed to the place. His eyes were heavy, lined with fear. He had taken off. He had returned. He wanted to talk about something. She wasn't listening to him at all – she was too excited. As hard as it was to see through, she assumed it was his irrational fear of commitment. She thought it was stupid.

But in some way it always made sense.

How much must it have been hurt to watch everything unravel like a castle of cards. Her fiancé died; his world was untouched. And yet he lost everything. And he kept it from her. They all kept it from her. She held her breath as long as she could to stem the rage and tears threatening to burst.

"Look, Mon," Joey had now lowered his voice, slowly realising he got carried away with the pent-up emotion, all the more into collecting the medicines than looking her in the eye, "I know how much you've got going at the moment and how the wound's all fresh. And I know this is incredibly selfish of me and Ross and others will kill me if they hear of this. But after what happened today, I'm scared, Monica. I gotta ask this of ya. Chandler's in deep waters. Please save him."

* * *

"Morning."

Chandler stirred and blinked into the sunlight peeping through the window crevices, and behind it, Monica. She stood there with a big smile, very politely, her hands together and a raggedy blanket over her shoulders. In all honesty, all of it was slightly alarming, and he would've jumped up had it not been the booming and worsened pain of his cracked ribs. Added to it the trippy pain and fluttering butterflies of the crush and he had before himself the perfect recipe for a sweet sadistic death.

"Hi, Mon," he managed to mutter, rubbing the sleep off his eyes.

She sat at the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"

"I feel ... like gremlins dancing on my head and rubber bands snapping against my chest," he yawned, "did you even sleep?"

"Yeah, I slept – here."

"Here?" Chandler raised a brow, "Here where?"

"On the couch."

"On the – _what_?" He uttered disbelievingly. Did he just make a pregnant woman sleep on an uncomfortable slippery spongy piece of furniture?

"Just four hours or so," Monica tried to build a defence, "everyone was there. It was kind of a picnic."

"What?"

"Yeah, I know, that was a crappy excuse," she sighed, while suddenly changing tracks of conversation, "by the way, you know what happened – I eventually forgot to tell Phoebe that you were discharged – and she got last night's message in the morning and made rounds at the hospital and then came knocking at the door at 6 a.m sharp, screaming... My god. That was something."

He smiled ruefully. "Mon, now you're going way overboard making me want to jump off a cliff out of guilt."

Monica stopped, and considered. "Oh. _Ohh_. Sorry."

"It's okay. So, Phoebe's out there?"

"Yeah, you want me to call her in?"

"Nah," he grabbed a handful of the bed sheet and tried to rise, "I wanna go out. The room stinks."

"I cleaned it last night."

Chandler glared at her this time. She flashed her teeth innocently, clasping her mouth, before she let out a muffled, "No guilt. No guilt. Shut up, Monica."

"Ahh," he let out an involuntary gasp of pain as he finally got on his feet, swaying. He reached out for the closet handle, his head exploding into fireworks from the fourth of July, so much so he could barely see. However, he sensed Monica's concerned eyes on him and blindly navigated forth. It was his own room and he knew the way out well.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he let out a raspy whisper as he wrapped his other arm around his chest, "It's almost like I'm wearing an incredibly tight iron bra underneath my boobs. D'you have any Aspirin?"

"Underneath?" She couldn't help but give into a laugh.

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Yeah, it seems the New Yorkers don't have a sense of humour anymore. Last evening I told a guy if he ought to mug his ski-mask mustn't be covered with monkey prints, and he hit me on the head."

She gazed at him, her smile died away. "That's not funny."

"I thought it was."

"Chandler."

"Okay, okay," he raised his free hand in surrender, "No more blabbing. Going straight into the living room." And he stumbled forth to push the door ajar and found Ross and Phoebe on the barcaloungers and Joey and Rachel at the counter putting out bowls and jams. As much as he hated it, as soon as he entered the room, the attention shifted to him.

"How you feelin' man?" asked Joey. Chandler smiled, and lied. "Better, man."

Ross got off the barcalounger and ushered him to sit. "So are you gonna file a report or something?"

He thumped over, the shudder of it travelling to his ribs and shooting out another wave of pain that he bit his lip to conceal, almost unsuccessfully. "I don't think so. Don't think this is gonna happen again."

"Chandler, you tell me what he looked like," Phoebe gritted her teeth, "I'm gonna beat the shit out of him. Was it Pat?"

Ross interrupted, "Who's Pat?"

"Just an old enemy," she shook her head absent-mindedly, "Was it him? Was it?"

"You know, I was mugged once when I was a kid. It wasn't half as bad as this... but the girl – I mean, I – well the huge guy – I mean," Ross looked around but it was too late to save himself, "Who am I kidding, I got mugged by a girl. And the punk with a pipe took away all the original artwork of _Science Boy_!"

" _Science Boy_?" Rachel laughed. Ross rolled her eyes at her, "Yeah, the punk must've rolled it into a doobie and smoked it away."

With appreciative glances from others, Rachel carried on. "And what exactly was _Science_ _Boy_ supposed to do?"

"He had a super-human thirst for knowledge!" he yelled in defence, "If only that hideous punk –"

"Hey, _hey_ ," scorned Phoebe unexpectedly, "What else d'you think would happen to you when your backpack says 'Geology rocks!'?"

Ross turned sharply at her. "What?"

Phoebe rubbed her chin, watching the ceiling sheepishly, in a vain attempt to erase what just happened though she knew too far down there was no way to control the damage now. "What what?"

A scandalised gasp from Rachel and a fit of laughter from Joey cut the ice. "Phoebe mugged you?!"

"Okay, now this is interesting," sniggered Chandler. Ross and Phoebe began to argue, others joined in but soon he tuned them out as he noticed Monica excuse herself out of the room. She said she had left some pancakes in the fridge. Maybe it was his urge to connect how pancakes brought her on the verge of tears that he limped his way to Apartment 20 right behind her.

* * *

"Monica?"

She had her head against the refrigerator. She had been sobbing. Startled at his voice, she was pulled out of her trance, vigorously wiping off the tears and opening the fridge door and staring blankly into the cold. He limped his way up to her.

"What happened there?"

"Huh?" She looked up, lost.

"You're crying," he said.

"I'm not... crying," she whispered hoarsely, leading to a fresh onslaught of tears. He gazed into her eyes, waiting for her to come around.

"Mon?"

"It's just... all the laughing and watching everybody together, and I realised it's been so long. I've missed this," she finally broke down her shell, crumbling into a sobbing mess, "It's almost as if I'm afraid to laugh. It's like if I do, I'll lose it again. I'll lose what I'm left with, again."

"Aw, come here," he pulled her into a hug, "The worst has passed. We have braved the storm."

His voice was soft; maybe the sincerity of it got her bawling like a child again, her head on his chest. Never mind the searing pains up and down his ribs. There couldn't be a pain worse than the fact he was holding onto the woman who might never even love him back. But he couldn't stop. He couldn't stop breathing into her hair. He couldn't help notice when her skin brushed against his. As he called it, it was a recipe of a sweet sadistic death.

All of a sudden, an epiphany dawned over Monica and she shrank out of the hug awkwardly. "I'm hurting you."

In many ways. "I'm alright," he assured her.

"Let's go back," she began to mumble, nervous out of some inexplicable reason, "And hey, listen, when you take a shower, don't forget to wrap a plastic around your head. I've put some gauze in the drawer, call me and I'll help you change the bandages –"

"Shhh, calm down," he wrapped his arm around her.

"I'm sorry, I just," she glanced down, lacing her fingers together, half lost in thoughts, "There are so many things on my mind since yesterday..."

That reminded him. "Hey, Mon, if you don't mind me asking..."

"Yeah?"

"As far as I remember, Joey told me you were off to your parents for a few good days. How come you were back by the night?"

She shook her head, tracing the design of the carpet. It seemed she didn't want to reply. She muffled another sob, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

"Monica, tell me."

"My mother wants me to get rid of the baby."

He was so shocked at the revelation that all that came out of his throat was a barely audible high-pitched " _What_?"

"Yes," she cried, "The one time I want them to be supportive, and they do this. But she's right, Chandler. She's right!" She screamed into the floor, her fingers clenching into his shoulders, "How am I supposed to raise a child on my own? How come my child deserves half a childhood? How come there'll be no father when I bring the baby to the world? Who will the doctor hand it to? I can't do it on my own, Chandler. I can't. I _can't_!"

She stared up to him, her face glazed with tears, her eyes bloodshot, lined with a kind of devastation that broke his heart. He had never seen her this way. Not the day the detectives gave up and announced that Richard's body must've flown down with the current and all they could find was a bloated hand – that he was officially dead. Not the day she sat upright on the couch, still in her wedding dress, a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders, gazing into the nothingness – not a tinge of emotion on her face.

Never in a million years would he want to see her this way again.

He didn't know what to say. He let her bury her head into his chest again. He let her cry. For a while, they stood there holding onto each other; as if they were in the middle of a stream and would drift apart if they let go. It felt like hours, years maybe, maybe an eternity. He longed to protect her. He wanted to. And maybe he would.

"You know," he began, with a friendly kiss in her hair, a little nervous, "Honestly speaking, I'll make a pretty good make-believe father."

* * *

 **I think I pulled a fast one here! Do review and I'll keep the chapters coming!**


	6. Chapter 6

V

* * *

"What did you _just_ say?"

She was so surprised she took a step back or two. He smiled inside, and repeated innocuously, his face earnest.

"I said I think I'll be a pretty good make-believe father."

She stared on blankly, while he added, "You want me to prove it to you?"

"No. Chandler –" she fell at a loss of words. Maybe it was the surprise, maybe the shock, maybe total confusion regarding whatever he was blabbering about, but he definitely saw her eyes widened and lined with what looked like – _hope_. He couldn't back out now. He was midway into the water. Neck-deep in trouble. And head over heels in love. But probably he didn't need to pass it all to Monica at the moment lest he wanted her to get a stroke or severe indigestion. Just the amount she needed.

"Look, Monica, it's not a big deal," he delicately took her hands in his. He had never felt this confident in a long time. "You're pregnant and you're living alone. I can be your roommate. I can help you out with the baby stuff. See, I know I'm not the perfect guy, but trust me, I'm not a horrible guy." He chuckled derisively at his own lame joke.

She was still gaping, uttering half-constructed sentences. "But – I – I can't ask you for – it's too much –"

"I'll be your chauffeur, your assistant, your nurse, your babysitter."

"But –"

"Well, you got to have someone doing the Lamaze classes with you."

"Oh my god. I'm flattered but I _can't_ ask this of you, Chandler –"

"You're not asking anything of me, Mon. I'm the one asking you. I wanna do it. I'm not doing a favour here; I wanna do it for me."

"But it'll be so much trouble for you," she continued to grate him with her unrelenting gratitude. Her eyes had welled up again. She was trembling. Chandler squeezed her hands. After the way he had spent the last few weeks, the horrors he had imagined and exaggerated, lingering in the shadows, apprehending encounters with her, he couldn't have even imagined the first ones go this well. He steadied her, and looked deep into her glassy eyes. Without the fear, without the shame. Perhaps it was due for a long, long time.

"Believe me, Monica, I'm already in trouble."

He had no idea what she might've made out of his riddling sentence. She hesitated, she cried, she gasped, she hyperventilated, and finally, she smiled. She laughed. It was the slight wrinkling on her nose every time she did that made his stupid heart flutter. If she would let him, he'd never let the laughter die.

"So?" He asked. Softly, expectantly.

"Okay," she whispered. Happily. Or at least he believed so. Monica wiped the tears and snot on her sleeve, and grinned. "You're so cute."

"That I am."

"But no dad jokes."

"You know," he furrowed his brows, his knuckles in his face trying to stifle a laugh. He play-acted to think, rubbing his chin, "I don't think I can go that far."

* * *

It was hardly afternoon when Joey had finally the mind to have the second breakfast of the day, as he sat there munching with the cartons of cereal and milk side by side. He sleepily trudged halfway through his effort, as Rachel came storming into the apartment.

"I hate my job!" she screamed through the air, "I abso- _freaking_ -lutely hate my job!"

"Hard time, huh?" he asked casually, while he chugged down some of the milk.

"Yes, and what the hell are you doing? Care to use a bowl?"

"All in the sink."

"Ugh," Rachel tried to shake off the insanity, "Why did they demote me? I spent the whole morning trying to fit a sixty year old woman into a swimsuit that she didn't even buy! And you know what's worse, at the end of the day I had a really awkward encounter with Joshua!"

"Who's Joshua?" Joey raised his eyebrows and racked his brains.

"Joshua?" she gestured as if it was so obvious, "The hot guy who came to buy suits? Oh, you don't know. Anyway, he wanted me to skim through the underwear collection and choose the best for him!"

"Cooool," Joey smiled appreciatively, dirty thoughts clouding his head. Rachel gave him a death-stare. She was about to utter what he was sure was an expletive when Phoebe interrupted into the scene.

"What is up with the universe?" Phoebe yelled, as if she were in the middle of a stage, "My pet Bob is pissed at me, on the road I stepped in gum and I forgot to put the ladle in the bag! Hey, Joey, d'you by any chance have a bowl and a ladle?"

"All in the sink," he answered mechanically.

"Since when do you have a pet?" asked Rachel.

"Since Bob invited himself to my apartment."

"Pheebs, who's Bob?"

"Bob's my pet rat. Wow, the conversation's going in circles."

Rachel raised her hands in surrender and turned to Joey. Phoebe ignored them, and carried on the rant, "And the worst part was, Monica went on smiling all through the details of my misery. First I thought it was adorable, then borderline creepy and then I realised she hadn't been listening to _anything_!"

"She's been smiling?"

"Yeah, and when I asked her she said the weather's nice. What about this dampy _floopy_ weather is nice?"

Joey beamed with pride. "I was right all along."

"About what?"

"About making Monica and Chandler talk to each other. Now it's all good!" He rambled excitedly.

"Yeah," Rachel rolled her eyes, "It's so good some thug beat the crap out of Chandler."

Joey glared at her. "Not that. But you gotta admit something's different."

Rachel subtly "shush"-ed the others as Chandler trotted out of his room, yawning, welcomed by an uncomfortable silence. Joey desperately tried to break the ice. "How you feelin' man?"

"I'm okay, Joe. You don't need to ask the same every time I enter the living room," he said, as he walked up to the kitchen counter, "So what're you guys talking about?"

"I guess," hummed Phoebe awkwardly, "I gotta go ask the neighbours if they have a ladle." With it, she left the room. Chandler watched her go, bewildered.

"It's about my job," moaned Rachel, in a feeble attempt to control the damage Phoebe just did. Her face brightened as it seemed to hit a new line of thought. "Speaking of jobs, when are you going back to yours?"

Chandler laughed at that. "You _had_ to remind me of that."

"No, seriously," Joey backed her, "Your boss called the trillionth time."

"Yeah, I don't think I'm going back there," he replied casually, settling over one of the barcaloungers, "Speaking of which, I have other news."

"What news?"

* * *

In all honesty, the first thing Joey felt was happy. He wondered if his own talk with Monica had anything to do with it. Chandler walked them through the conversation he had with Monica in the morning, then folded his arms and pursed his lips, waiting for them to react. Joey had almost jumped in joy, when it hit him – Chandler moving in with Monica had meant Chandler moving out of _here_.

Rachel, however, appeared to be in a different kind of shock. "What are you doing?"

Chandler was a little startled. "Okay, I hadn't expected you guys to dance in merriment, but man this is some negative review."

Joey wanted to know too. He wanted to protest instantly, but stopped short on his feet lest he slipped out the fact that Rachel too knew about Chandler's feelings towards Monica.

"Chandler, you're paving a disaster," she said grimly.

He frowned, "Why, what's the big deal about helping her out?"

Rachel threw him a mix of concern and apprehension as she began to explain, "Chandler, we're all helping her out here. But what you're doing, or what you want to do... You'll get too attached. What if she never sees you that way?"

He looked up sharply, while Joey leaped out of his seat, almost stifling a physical desire to gag Rachel's big mouth with a cloth. For a second, Chandler seemed a bit embarrassed, but it passed and he dwindled into his thoughts. Rachel tried to comfort him all the while ignoring Joey's constant angry tugs at her elbow, kneeling next to the barcalounger, rubbing his arm.

"Oh, honey," she mumbled, "trust me; I'd love it if she eventually falls in love with you. But what if she doesn't? What if she goes out with a guy with – with Brad Pitt's face and Jesus' abs – and you're left being just a babysitter?"

"Rach, I'm not helping her to impress her –"

"I know," she said, "I know, sweetie. But you're attaching yourself to the woman you love. This is suicide, Chandler. What'll you do when it's time to leave?"

"I guess," he exhaled, his eyes at the ceiling, possibly to evade the pity looks from Rachel, "I guess I'll just _leave_."

Joey realised his triumphant smile had long gone. Somewhere inside his idyllic head, everything was fair. It was all rainbows and sunshine, and there wasn't a speck of doubt that Chandler and Monica would end up together. After all, two best friends falling in love, it was a cliché – it happened way too often. But as Rachel spoke, his temple throbbed with the recurrent _what if, what if, what if_... His heart broke to think, whichever way was out, it was probably a tragedy.

* * *

Chandler struggled to rip open the plastic packaging of the cigarette box. He sat on the ledge of the balcony, right beside the fire escape; he couldn't stand for long without getting his ribs worked up again. He finally tore it apart, and pulled out a sleek cigarette – it was probably his tenth of the day. The breeze felt nice; the sky was grumbling with impending rain.

As far as he remembered, the others were down at the coffeehouse. He had slipped out telling them he wanted to rest (and the fact he was fed up of people casting curiously worried glances at his still-bandaged head). The smoking had always grossed them out.

He flicked the lighter and lit it, inhaling the first deep heavenly drag even as it sent a resounding buzz to his head. His relationship with cigarettes was older and more intimate than most people he knew. To others, the first cigarette was fashion, sometimes a social ladder to merge in, sometimes just an experiment; to him it was his first love.

He was young then. Really, really young. He had come home from his first ever visit to a shrink. The shrink guy had told him not to blame himself for the divorce. He had silently nodded, nothing registering in his mind. And that was when he had mistakenly run into his father doing tequila shots off the houseboy. They hadn't noticed. He had gagged and left for upstairs.

He hadn't understood it, whatever it was. All he had known was separation was a terrible thing to do, and his father wasn't even a wee bit sorry about it. Chandler had cast a look at the dining table before he left, as it triggered the memory of the year's Thanksgiving, when he had vomited all over the platter.

He had peeked into his mother's room. Thankfully, nobody – and even more thankfully, no two-bodies – were inside. He had casually looked through the stuff on her messy desk – blank sheets of paper soaking a leaking ink pen, a dirty magazine, a copy of _Mistress_ _Bitch_ , a compact foundation kit – when her handbag toppled to the floor and a bunch of pens, keys and a packet of cigarettes scattered out.

His mind had reeled to Thanksgiving again, how after the revelation and the throwing-up fiasco his mother had smoked and smoked the night away. Maybe it had helped with the pain. He had picked the packet up, and pulled out one. Somebody had said in class those things could kill too. But he had thought, he was nine, how dangerous could it get?

He glanced around for a match box; he couldn't work a lighter. There it was – and he lit it – and took a puff. A gust of burning smoke tore through his nostrils and throat and left him in a coughing fit. But he hadn't let it go. It would get better, he had hoped.

It never did get better. But he was right. It did help with the pain. Every kinds of it. It was right by his side, every time, during every heartbreak, every betrayal, every humiliation, every injury. It sent his head into a tizzy, stopped him from thinking too much into things, helped him crack jokes, and helped him build his impenetrable shell.

It probably killed him too, puff by puff. But it was insubstantial against the weight of actually living.

Chandler stubbed the burnt end against the ledge and tossed it aside into the heap of other cigarette butts. He fished for a fresh one, lit it and looked into the lamplight ahead for another string of thoughts. His mind went back to the morning he had knocked on Kathy's door to tell her they were over. Only if it had gone as he had expected.

"Oh my god," Kathy had rubbed her chest, as if slowly trying to digest all of it he just spewed out.

"Kathy," he had begun in a low voice, cracking up with emotion. It was the most horrible thing he had ever had to do, as he fixed his gaze at the floor, probably never being able to look her in the eye again.

"I don't understand," she had said. She had looked devastated, but hadn't cried. Maybe she was too devastated to cry. "I don't understand, Chandler, what went wrong?"

"It's me," he had replied. It wasn't date-language, he had meant it. He hadn't known how to go about explaining the reason their wedding was off was that there was a slight chance he had fallen in love with somebody else.

"What about you?"

"I'm broken."

"So why are you pushing me away?"

"I'm probably too broken for you to have a good life with me, Kath."

"What horseshit," she had rolled her eyes, uncannily sounding like Joey.

"I know," he had run his hands through his hair out of frustration, and taken a breath, readying himself. "Look, look. I don't want to lie to you. It's Monica. You saw her, you saw what happened. She's one of my best friends, Kath. Her fiancé's dead and she's about to raise a fatherless child. I can't take all of it, Kathy. I don't think I'm gonna be fulfilling in a relationship for a long time. As long as I watch her go through this."

"So you're breaking the engagement because of _her_?"

Chandler had tried not to notice the odd sort of spite in her utterance of 'her'. He had quietly nodded. Had stolen a glance at her. Still no tears.

"Well," she had breathed, rubbing her face, her chin dug in between the collarbones, "I can't say I'm surprised."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing," she had mumbled, "So, this is it. So you want your ring back?"

It had hurt a little. Probably somewhere inside him he hadn't expected her to let him go this easily. After all, they had been together for a year and a half. But it was fair. She had been respectful towards his decision, while he had still not been totally honest with her. He had loathed himself for it, but he couldn't just bring himself to hurt her anymore. He had done enough.

"You keep it."

She "hmm"-ed about it. Looked about her own dingy apartment (Chandler couldn't recall how many times he had told her to look for a new one), and settled on the couch. He had clenched his fists and leaned against the door. He had wondered whether the conversation had ended, whether he should leave.

After a little while, Kathy begun again. "Since we're breaking up, I think there's something you should know too."

He had prepared himself for it. "Okay."

"You remember the night we had our first big fight?"

"Yeah," he painfully chuckled. Oddly good times.

"You came to my house to apologise; you said we'll take it to the next level from here. Well, there was something I should've told you right then. When you came that night, Nick was there too."

He had remembered Nick. The fantastically good-looking man with rock-hard abs and giant man-nipples, with whom Kathy had simulated sex every evening on stage for a month. That was what their fight was about. "Wha– what was he doing there?" he had laughed slightly for the lack of a better response, although he knew perfectly well where this was heading.

She had stared up guiltily. "I'm sorry, Chandler."

She couldn't have had found a better moment to deliver that final blow. He had inhaled sharply, his head spinning. "How many times?"

"What?"

"How many times did you sleep with him?"

"Just that once, Chandler. I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking back then – I guess, I guess I just wanted to get back at you –"

"And you did," he snapped.

"I am sorry. I lost my mind when you threw it on my face, about how we got together – and you deserved to know about it earlier –"

"I can't believe you cheated on me, Kath."

"It was a year ago, and we're breaking up anyway. How does it matter?"

"It matters because you _lied_!" He had suddenly lost his temper, "It matters because I trusted you with my eyes closed while somebody else was satisfying you on and off the stage! Tell me, was I too incapable?"

"No, Chandler –"

"Was I that bad that you had to resort to someone else?"

"Are you _even_ listening to me?"

"I am. I just did."

"I love you, Chandler. I still do."

"That makes me feel so good inside my chest," he had retorted sarcastically. He had to use every ounce of his energy to stop himself from blabbing he was in love with somebody else as well. He had deserved it; somewhere along the line karma had been a bitch. He had deserved to have been slapped with it on the face. It wasn't Kathy's fault. They had both been unfaithful to each other, more or less.

Kathy didn't speak again. He had looked at her for the last time; there were tears. He had turned and twisted the knob. Had put a step out, and halted, for one final word.

"You know, you could've just kept your secret to yourself."

He had stumbled down the stairs, his shoulders slumped, devastated. It was never a game, but Kathy had won. She had managed to kill whatever that was left of him. As soon he stepped out of her place, it had started to rain. He had walked along the pavement, bumping into people running about for a shade, shielding their heads. The rain had been good. The rain had allowed him to cry without anyone ever knowing.

* * *

The sky let out a deep growl. It might rain again tonight. He continued with the cycle – stub, toss and light a fresh one – blinking back tears. It was his twelfth; his chest ached a little, but he didn't mind. He could hear a faint tune coming from one windows of the building opposite theirs, from what he could make out, it sounded like _The Sound of Silence_. Not that it mattered.

"Happily resting, aren't you?" came Monica's voice from behind.

He panicked for a split-second, stubbing the newly-lit cigarette and sweeping the ledge clean of the heap of butts before she could discover them. Then turned and gave her a lopsided grin, "Dammit, pregnant lady."

She walked over to him and leaned against the ledge. "So what are we watching here? God, Chandler, you stink of smoke! How many did you have?"

"Just a couple," he lied, while his hands rose pretending to surrender.

"Let it go," she softly advised.

"I know," he sighed, "I've tried, but it just keeps coming back in rounds –"

"Not just the cigarettes, you know."

He turned his head at her, his brows furrowed. "What d'you mean?"

"Everything," she said, "Don't hold it back. It'll hurt you. Let it go. And never go back there again. That's what I did. Or at least what I think I did."

"Yeah," he smiled slightly, and reached out an arm to pull her closer. For a while, both of them happened to be gazing at the flickering street lamp, the summer breeze grazing through their hair. The song had picked up the beats amidst the vague noise of the far-off traffic. _But my words like silent raindrops fell, and echoed in the wells of silence..._

"Hey, look, Ugly Naked Guy's building a case," Monica pointed down at a very familiar window.

He squinted and peeked in; indeed there was the good ol' unbearably gross-looking fat guy sawing through a plank of wood. "Why is he poking the case with his thing?"

"I think that's a sausage on the table behind."

"Oh," he tried to peep again, and deadpanned, "I just thought he really _really_ liked what he made."

"Eww," Monica laughed, "Hey, let's go in, it's gonna rain."

"In a minute," he said, as he watched her climb over the barrier into the apartment. He let out a deep, defeated sigh. And there he was, about to commit to another attachment with startling enthusiasm. He climbed down the ledge, fell against the wall and buried his head in his arms. What was the point in bumping into a new dead-end?

Rachel's voice from the afternoon reverberated in his ears. Rachel did make sense. Maybe this was indeed suicide. Maybe he should back off. After all, no one knew better what separations felt like. Maybe he should go back to his old job. Maybe he should grab the packet for another cigarette.

No, no.

Somewhere along the line, Monica was made more sense. He ought to let it go. He ought to stop carrying the baggage of what had happened and what might happen. _Let's just focus on what's happening_ , he rambled in his head. He'd start anew.

The first step there would be throwing his nicotine lifeline into the dustbin.

* * *

 **See, children, I'm being good and keeping the chapters coming! Simultaneously, I'm putting on weight (more like, insulation) and lazying in front of the computer all day, having no life and probably no regard for my semester exams. Keep the reviews coming and I'll be good! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

VI

* * *

The next month passed in a blur. Joey had taken Chandler's moving out quite well (he had moaned and whined and cried for two days straight, then stepped up to carry the boxes almost single-handedly, as random as it was), and in fact, even jokingly put out an ad in the paper ("Roommate required: female, non-smoker, non-ugly.") or at least what Chandler thought was a joke – when it came to Joey, the line was pretty _thin_. He also ended up having a funny skirmish with Monica regarding where the barcalounger would go (he never understood her point; to him Monica's apartment stuff was always mismatched but somehow still complemented each other, so whom had the barcalounger sinned against?), but at the end of the day, they were good.

So yes, basically, time was a blur and life was good. Pretty good.

The worst thing that had probably happened in the past few weeks was his going back to his old job. He didn't know what made him – perpetual boredom, the inversely proportional love between him and his boss, or the fact this dead-end job was one of the two things he was good at, the other about being the deadpan snarky wallflower of the town.

And there he was, files piled up on the table, yawning. He pulled one from the bottom as they tumbled in a domino effect. He shrugged. That was probably the most action-packed thing to have happened to him this evening. The thought of the files dragging his work time overnight elicited another long mournful groan from him. He jumped up to his feet and strolled out of the cabin for some coffee.

"Hey, Chandler," it was the co-worker Sally, right by the coffee machine. He waved in response. She smiled. He always thought she had a nice smile, no weird features, and didn't bore too much. In fact he might've made a move about asking her out had he not been whacked out of relationships by Kathy and full of unrequited love for Monica.

"Doug being difficult?" she asked again. He pouted unthinkingly. "Yeah, well, kind of."

"You know, I was wondering," she continued, her smiled bordering on seductive if he wasn't mistaken, "would you mind, you know, getting a bite, like dinner? My apartment's right around the corner."

He raised his eyebrows so high they almost disappeared into his hair. Did he hear that right? Did a girl just _flirt_ with him? Years of bad luck and months of guilt and weeks past a broken engagement must've brought him some sexy maturity. His insides gloating and dancing a conga right out of that little idea, he pursed his lips and put his chin up for an obvious "no", and instead reached out for his coffee. That was when the pager beeped. He checked down.

Monica. Baby duty.

"So?" Sally gave an impatient heads-up.

"Uhm," he began awkwardly, "As much I'd love to, I gotta go. I have er – uhm, a baby emergency."

"You have a baby? I thought you aren't married."

"Well, uh, look, it's not mine – okay, it's a long story," he continued to shrug even as she looked on, bewildered, "Here, I'll tell you over coffee someday." He placed his own cup over the coffee machine, and before she could reply, dashed to his office for a call-back and his overcoat.

As truthful as it was, it must've had sounded like the lamest excuse ever. He couldn't care less. He called up Monica; it wasn't anything serious, just that the doctor had preponed the appointment. Still a little nervous, and elated about fleeing work again, he rushed down for a cab. Half an hour and a traffic jam later, he finally stepped onto the Ob-Gyn department (he wasn't sure what they called it; he usually identified it with that frightening row of laughing baby frames), jogging through the corridors, looking for his pregnant lady.

There she was, sitting beside another woman, flipping though a baby-related spare hospital booklet. He wouldn't blame her, there wasn't much you could find below the tables, even in regular departments – it was either this, or trivia upon VDs. Her adorable bump was the first thing that always caught his eye against her lean body.

"Hey," he jogged up to her, breathing shallow.

She looked up and her face brightened, "Hey. You're just in time. We're about to go in."

He knelt before her and held her sweat-clammed hand. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she whispered, a little scared and a little excited, "It's the second trimester."

Chandler grinned, "You're doing so well," and gave her a peck on the cheek. He wondered if that gesture ever did anything to her; probably it didn't, even as it sent a feelings-bound train from his chest to his gut every time, ravaging everything in its way.

* * *

"And that's the baby," the doctor pointed at the ultrasound image on the monitor, followed by a routine burst of tears from Monica. Unlike the blobs of grey that there were in the earlier ultrasounds, this time the baby was comprehensible and moving, so much so it even brought a small lump to his own throat, which he fervently passed down.

"It's so... it's so amazing," squeaked Monica, in the midst of her happy sobbing. He squeezed her shoulder.

The doctor smiled down at them, straightened his glasses, and after a quick glance at the file he had been holding, began to speak. "So, are you guys ready to know the sex of the baby?"

Monica jumped at that, turning to Chandler, her eyes bulging out of her sockets. This was too big. Were they?

"Are we?"

He gave a nod of assurance. She beamed, smiling till her ears. He sat at the head of the hospital bed, his butt almost hanging by the edge, his arm around her shoulders to steady her. She was bound to leap out and hyperventilate at what was coming.

"It's a girl," said the doctor.

It was almost as if an imaginary applause gave way to a hollow silence, and all he could think of was the laughter of a beautiful small girl with gleaming blue eyes and curled-up blonde hair to the ears. He couldn't help but reach out to Monica for a tight embrace.

"Aw, look at little Winona all happy and upside down in the gooey stuff," he joked softly, gazing up at the monitor again.

"Can you even _think_ past your favourite celebrities?" Monica laughed, her face glossy with the fresh onslaught of tears.

"Well, the chick took Yasmine, so."

"Oh, right," she grinned, while he bounced up to his feet.

"So I guess I'll wait outside," he said, scratching the back of his head, tiny specks of embarrassment on his cheeks, "You go get changed and stuff."

"Okay," she laughed again, probably at his clumsiness as he saw off the doctor and closed the door behind them.

He let out a long sigh as he slumped on the bench outside. He wouldn't lie; he couldn't have felt happier but this tiny long twinge of grief just didn't seem to let go. Thousands of times he had told, convinced, _scolded_ himself how all of this was unconditional and had to remain so, and yet he couldn't stop treading over the dangerous territory. He couldn't stop imagining a future where he and Monica would hold the little girl's either hand and walk her down in a park.

 _"But what if she doesn't? What if she goes out with someone - with Brad Pitt's face and Jesus' abs - and you are left being just a babysitter?"_

He couldn't think of dating his co-worker Sally. He didn't even want to – he was in _fricking_ love with Monica. He'd give all he had, hell, he'd even take a bullet for her. But when this nameless, faceless, tall dark handsome stranger – not to mention, mature, Monica always wanted _mature_ – with Brad Pitt's face and Jesus' abs – would arrive, he'd have to leave.

He thought about her past. Classy moustached men, famous millionaires. His odds were worse than Joey buying the Knicks. He smirked wryly at that.

"Scared, are ya?"

He looked up; it was the woman on the bench right opposite him, the one Monica was sitting beside. She crossed her legs and gave him an I-understand-what-you're-going-through look.

"Terrified," he replied, almost automatically.

"So, what's it, girl or a boy?"

"A girl."

"Aw. I got kicking twins," she chuckled and glanced down at her swollen belly, then went pensive, "Don't worry; you'll be a great dad."

He almost opened his mouth to clarify, then realised it was his second of the day; if he kept going this way, soon he'd have to hang a "Not the dad" placard about his neck and ring a bell. He playfully winked instead. "You don't think I know that already?"

* * *

Monica had insisted on walking. It was a beautiful evening anyway. The roads were glistening with the recent rain and letting out a soft yellow glow of the streetlights, and the hard-hitting, almost sensual petrichor; the traffic felt distant and the pavement was empty enough for a casual walk. Nothing like the cool, moist New York air and waning of the mind into deep, happy thoughts.

"Okay, what about Elizabeth?" Chandler broke into her trance. This was perhaps the seventeenth name he had suggested.

"It's... too royal," Monica shook her head.

"Kim?"

"Too short."

"Angelina?"

"Too jolly."

"Naaaice," Chandler patted on her back appreciatively. She was finally catching up on his sophisticated yet dorky sense of humour. "Okay," he slightly jumped a few steps ahead and kicked on a pebble, "What about... Yasmine?"

"Chandler, of the nineteen names you mentioned, eleven were Yasmine."

"Okay, then, Bleeth?"

Monica hit him on the shoulder, grinning. In a very outwardly fashion, he straightened his collar and looked right ahead, and articulated in the deepest voice possible, as if putting on a street play. "Honey, with me it's all nihilism, cynicism, sarcasm and orgasm."

"You got that from a movie."

"Everybody gets that from a movie."

Monica threw a sideways glare and lopsided grin at his sass. They walked the two blocks to the subway without speaking much; just a joke and a shared passing comment on some pedestrian's balding red head. The subway was emptyish too, maybe because of the rain.

Not to mention, the slow swinging motion of the train, the long time to kill and the rainy moisture was a dreadfully sleepy combination. Monica shifted closer to Chandler, barely able to lift her eyes open anymore, and dozed off against his shoulder.

She had always thought that they were closer than they'd liked to admit. Well, closer, close-ish, then close again ... then a drift and close-ish again – it was quite an oscillating equation. All of it shot a reminder at the very beginning of their friendship - Ross and Carol's wedding. No, _no_ , the Thanksgivings were not the beginning. The Thanksgivings were plain nightmares.

Best man and the bridesmaid. It was kind of customary. It was indeed customary to watch Chandler flirt the whole rehearsal dinner with Carol's best friend, the other bridesmaid, without much success. She had scoffed, almost sneered once. Although she had to admit he had improved – no flock of seagulls, or ridiculous Miami Vice suits, or desperate sleeve-scrunching – he had his hair gelled backwards and the rented groomsman tux was somewhat sexy. Plus, the very mention of his name elicited a groan from her parents (she wondered why a stranded toe in the kitchen carried such animosity), so there was some shared connect there.

Then he had asked her for a dance. And she had almost refused.

That was where it had all begun. They had shared more than they had sneered, although spiced up with a few eye rolls here and there; he had noticed her mother's favouritism, she had – well, she had thought it'd be nice if he moved in next door since they had gotten rid of the annoying Amanda.

It wasn't their first meeting after the disastrous Thanksgivings. They had often ended up at awkward terms, what with Ross often ditching her to go off gallivanting with Carol, and with Rachel increasingly getting snooty and distant. For all she cared, they were never close then.

Once he moved in next door, things became different. Somewhat close-ish. The whole Kip fiasco, Phoebe secretly moving out, Ross getting occupied with the problems of his married life, it was more than often that they ended up together, munching on popcorn and watching Entertainment Tonight.

Somewhere along the line, the _having_ to end up together dissolved to _wanting_ to end up together.

They were close.

Then came Joey. Joey and Chandler became inseparable. They were _the_ guys. Bert and Ernie. Lenny and Squiggy. She didn't even realise when she shifted to a sorry second. Thank God for Rachel dropping in her life again.

She wasn't sure if she was even trying to make a point here. Bottom line was, for all the love and care and mutual respect – and the closeness _schmoseness_ – she still didn't think she was entitled to what he was doing for her. She knew it wasn't because she was special or something; Chandler could be quite a giver for no damn reason. She had seen him galloping around the town past midnight looking for reviews of the play Joey was in, taking him to the doctor's, paying for his rent, auditions, headshots, reading lines with him... and the list didn't end.

In the past month she had thoughts of asking him to go back to Kathy and have a life, but refrained. Maybe she knew how stubborn and stupid he could get. Maybe she was simply afraid. Or maybe she didn't want to be a sorry second again.

The train jerked to a halt and Monica snapped awake. She blinked her eyes open to the sharp white lights of the compartment, and squinted. Chandler smiled down at her. "Don't doze off again. It's the next stop."

"I wasn't dozing," she didn't know what that involuntary impulse to prove she wasn't a pansy was, even as she internally groaned at herself, "I was... thinking."

"Really? Thinking what?"

"You know," she shrugged and pretended to think all while her mind ran out of ideas, "Stuff."

* * *

It was almost afternoon next day when Phoebe opened the Apartment 20 door to the neurotic clunks of Monica's dishes and Rachel's incessant whining about her job. They stopped short on their tracks as they watched her trot in, then carried on. Phoebe sighed and pulled out a chair to sit in the kitchen.

"I don't know what to do!" It was Rachel again, "I don't know what to do! I bump into him like every other day in my office, and then there's Ross who doesn't even make a move!"

Phoebe wondered whether she should inquire at what point of the story did she butt into the room. However, she knew better when Rachel shook off her coat and slammed it down on the couch, and then stomped ahead and thumped onto the chair right opposite her.

"It sucks," she bowed her head into her arms, "My job sucks. My love life officially sucks. In fact it sucks so bad that now I think I was better off when I was getting coffee!"

"Rach, it's okay," Phoebe rubbed on her hand, "It's Ross. You know he loves you. Plus you guys live together, something's bound to happen."

Rachel raised a bewildered eyebrow. "Oh yeah, it's a marriage. We yell, we fight, we play sexual games. It's a _hoot_!"

"Hey, just trynna help you, woman."

It elicited a random laugh from Monica, who had her front faced at the sink, and who appeared till now to not have listened to a word of the conversation. They turned at her, Rachel a little more annoyed than expected. " _What_. Which part of my misery is amusing to you?"

Monica slightly raised her hands in surrender, pulling off the wet yellow rubber gloves, "No, no. Not that. It's just Phoebe said just because you're living together, something was bound to happen."

"Why, what's wrong with that?" asked Phoebe.

"Well, Chandler and I live together, and I don't see anything ever happening there. It's not a marriage."

"Well, it's different. It's not like Chandler's in love with you or you share a history or something."

"Yeah," said Rachel, almost dramatically loud, "Yes, _yes_ , yes. That's true." Phoebe screwed her eyebrows and stared long at her; something about her assertion was nervous and manufactured. Rachel looked away. All while the happily unaware Monica gave them a casual nod and went back to the dishes.

"Say, Monica," began Rachel, with that manufactured voice and the nervous undertone; it was almost like asking the 10,000 dollar Pyramid question, "So, so – er, so you're saying that there's absolutely _no_ chance you and Chandler might get together?"

Monica wheeled and rendered her a bored gaze. "Rach, we've been over this."

"No chemistry, not even a teensy little spark?"

" _Rachel_!" Phoebe stepped in to chastise her. After all Monica had been through this year, it came off as borderline offensive.

Thankfully, none was taken. Monica laughed. "Me and Chandler? It'd be like the two most neurotic people in the room together."

Phoebe hung her head and gave up on the issue that came off to her as nothing more than Rachel embarrassingly haggling with Monica. She pulled out the munchies from her bag and began munching on them loud enough to cancel the palpable tension. Rachel sighed, while her voice died down to a low apprehensive murmur.

"If you ask me... it still doesn't seem such a bad idea..."

* * *

 **Chapters are coming in nice and hot off the oven! Unfortunately that's gonna stop because now I have exams, and ugh, this might be my last update of the month. And thank you every one of you who have reviewed; you have no idea how much they mean to me. I know that I'm not supposed to ask and keep on writing for the sake of writing and yada yada (which I will, not to worry), but not getting a word from the reader feels like I'm telling my story to myself, ha. But that isn't the case and could I _be_ any happier? Come June and I'll use all my pent up fanfic energy and become a monster updating machine!**

 **Yes, and please review! :D**


	8. Chapter 8

VII

* * *

"Mr. Bing. Good to see you again."

Chandler smiled wearily. "Well, I'd made a payment of six months and thought a well-wishing last visit won't hurt."

He guessed his psychiatrist had a penchant for uber-bright skirts. The bright lights were down on him, burning into his neck even as he settled uncomfortably into the patient's couch. The lady, her cheekbones accented with her short-cropped hair that gave off a stony impenetrable vibe, adjusted her wood-rimmed spectacles and gave him the gaze. "So, how have you been?"

"I've been good."

"Any new developments?"

"Nothing much. Tried to move on. Quit smoking. Got back to my job. Got mugged too."

Her brows furrowed, "You got mugged?"

He shrugged, grinning awkwardly, "Oh no, it was all good. I, uh, actually moved in with Monica, helping her with the pregnancy and stuff. And we're good too."

The lady, in his dazed amazement, laughed lightly, "That is great, Chandler," that is, before she crossed her legs, her face back to unreadable. "I got to ask, though. I hope there hasn't been any trouble. Why exactly are you here? Has anything upset you?"

Boy, for a shrink she could be pretty straightforward. He fiddled with the handle of his briefcase. "Well, there was this birthday thing last week..."

"What birthday thing?"

He felt stupid to actually slip that out. He had come up to the apartment one day, decorated and filled with guests, with Monica bringing in trays of sophisticated appetisers he couldn't even distinguish from one another, and Phoebe lodging buckets of ice at random places and making snow cones. Apparently, they had been planning on giving a surprise to Rachel a month before the actual day. It was only when Rachel returned from work to a huge applause of "Surprise!" that she pointed out something.

He cribbed. "Well, uh, well there was this thing where my friends forgot my birthday that kinda... hurt."

"But that's not what you're here for."

He sighed in defeat, his fingers clenching around the handle of the briefcase. He looked away into the hot, piercing light. She was right; his life could never go so well that his birthday being overlooked be the gravest thing to worry about.

"Well, there was this other thing that had been killing me."

* * *

This one, too, happened a week ago.

It was somewhat a line of comical frustration when he had pushed ajar the door to Apartment 19 and found Joey and Rachel on the barcalounger chugging on beer, watching _Weekend_ _at_ _Bernie's_. "You two, have got to stop pushing around that Monica and I could be the new hot couple in town."

Joey chuckled and Rachel hummed, none of them ever taking their eyes off the TV. He glared, then sighed, and then opened the freezer, pulled out a beer can and settled alongside them on the couch. "Why oh _why_ do we have to watch this every day?"

"Yeah, it's only fun when it's _Die_ _Hard_ , isn't it?" Rachel deadpanned for the movie she'd defend till the end of the earth. The boys punched in the air in unison at the name of theirs, even as she rolled her eyes; so much for the attempt at the sass they didn't even get.

"Oh, hey, Chan," Joey turned to him, all while Rachel flailed her arm to "shhh" them, "There was a guy on the phone for you an hour ago. And I'm tired of being your answerin' machine. When the hell are you goin' to tell people you've moved out and changed your number?"

"What, and start receiving my office calls?" He grinned cheekily, crossing his legs across the couch and the barcalounger. "Who was it?"

"He didn't tell me. He wanted to speak to you right away. He said he'll call again. I guess it should be comin' anytime now."

"That's weird," said Rachel.

Chandler threw a bored glance at the phone. "I guess some Harry messed up with the files or something..."

They had barely made through another escapade with Bernie's corpse when it rang again. Chandler hopped on his feet and jogged towards it, before he tucked the receiver at the crease of his neck while getting a cold sandwich out of the refrigerator, beer in one hand. "Helllloo?"

"Hello Chandler?"

His insides flipped. He knew the voice all too well. His spine gave off a chill, his fingers trembled, spilling the half-done beer can over the counter. The dripping noises and the loud clunk of the tin made the other two turn, all while they found him staring blankly into the deep. Joey even mouthed a concerned "Who?"; Rachel scrunched her face into a confused question mark.

Chandler ignored them. He wanted to ignore the person on the phone too. It was almost as if he could sense his entire life flashing back. He took a humongous breath in, and used up every ounce of his energy to formulate a reply.

"Dad, why've you called?"

His father stuttered on the end. "Look, I know you probably do not want to talk to me, but I - I was wondering if we could, you know, I tried to get to you and –"

"Cut it out, why have you called here?" It was curt and blunt and hurtful, like he wanted it. Chandler blinked back the threatening tears.

"I was wondering if you could meet me this week, I was in town for a few days –"

Chandler slammed the receiver back and stormed out of the apartment. His heart was hammering against his chest. He didn't know what he needed right then; he probably needed a walk, a bath – _anything_ – anything to drive out of his mind the fact he just held a conversation with the man who probably didn't even want to be called his father.

He had slumped over Monica's couch and eventually dozed off, thinking and rethinking over the two-lined talk. It was borderline ridiculous; what did his father want now? To mend relationships? One fine day, fifteen years later, he'd call and expect – what, tears and hugs and cherries and blossoms? It was never that easy, even by his father's standards, who usually tended to make sure he got whatever he wanted.

This wasn't fair. He was finally moving on, leaving the hideous baggage of his history behind, and the scariest ghost of his past wanted to meet him?

His past was a wasteland. Going back there would mean going back to everything – cigarettes, and Kathy. He wasn't sure he was ready to voluntarily dig up a scar and make it bleed.

"Hey, you okay?"

He jumped at Monica's voice, which almost came off like a tunnel of distant light through his abyss. She was carrying a trolley of groceries, slight bent back with her growing bump, all glowing and sweaty. He shifted into the cushion and nodded sleepily. She continued, "Um, Joey and Rachel said you got upset over a call, uh, or something..."

It suddenly reminded him that he got so caught up with emotion he forgot to clean the dramatic beer spillage. He shrugged; he would frown over that later. He dug his face deeper into the cushion. "Yeah... It was my dad."

A gasp involuntarily escaped from Monica's lips. "What did he say?"

"He said he wants to meet me."

"And?"

"And I hung up."

" _Chandler_."

It was this reprimanding tone that usually made him want to kick himself senseless, but not this time. Chandler refused to make an eye-contact.

"Chandler, you can't ignore him forever."

"It's not that simple, okay," he snapped, and sat up. He didn't want to talk about it; it was hard enough thinking. It was not simple, reassessing his childhood thinking where his father had flawed and where he hadn't. It wasn't that simple.

Monica sat beside him, comforting and strict. "You're gonna have to see him."

"Monica, no means no."

"Look, he might have embarrassed you -"

"Oh, no no no," he laughed derisively, "All children are embarrassed by their parents. You gotta have a whole new word for what I went with mine." He scoffed, almost at himself, "And all those swim meets, you're fourteen, you're wearing Speedos, and you look up there, and there's dad dressed up as Carmen Miranda, wearing a fruit hat that he later gives away to your friends, as a healthy snack!"

Monica did not relent. "But the important part is, he was there to cheer for you. My dad never attended one of my piano recitals."

He gazed at her, gritting his teeth. He could feel the blood pounding in his veins. "Do you remember how you felt when you landed with your parents' tape? Just imagine it getting reruns five times a day, and that's every day, on a big screen with loudspeakers, from the moment you're nine."

"Chandler, listen to me –"

"I do not have a problem with two incredibly promiscuous parents who not have a lash over the libido. But if you wanna have sex, you do it with each other!"

He was ranting frantically, so much so that Monica had to shift closer and squeeze his hands together to calm him down. "It's okay, Chandler. It's really okay."

He exhaled. "It's not. It's _not_."

It was too hard to explain. He couldn't go through the ordeal without bursting into tears, and he was good without it for the last month. He hesitated. He knew, he could sense that Monica too knew this wasn't about being gay or being a drag queen, or making sexual advances.

"Look," he took another deep breath in; every word in his mind right then felt like a hand through his windpipe reaching out to his heart, to squish it between its fingers. "For the nine years that they stuck together, it was because of me."

"What d'you mean?"

"I think, I think - ugh, I can't believe I'm actually talking about this – they never wanted to get together. I think they were burdened with me. I'm an accident."

"Hey, you don't know that."

"Yes, I do. I very well do, Mon. All these years, all those sexual games. All they wanted was to win. They have never, never bothered about what it brought on. And they have a reason not to care. And who knows, maybe this is part of a new game?"

But Monica hadn't buckled. She had harped on about letting it go. She had insisted facing his demons was the only way he could ever kill them, the only way to get past the burden. It would be terribly hard, but it would be worth it.

So he had let her win. He had called his father back (although he didn't speak a word every time Charles picked up, and eventually left the short, forced message on the answering machine). Not at Central Perk; it was too personal. Maybe a random uptown restaurant. The next day at five-ish.

It had rained that day. He got out of the cab before a certain Mexican restaurant, stepped into a puddle and cringed. It was an odd, crowded evening. Yet even in the midst of the swarming faces, he fixated on his father's, who was blankly poring into the menu card. He was easy to recognise – over the years the wrinkles had clamped along his temples from the corners of his eyes – they brought a strange sad baggage to his face, something even a metre thick make-up hadn't been able to hide. A huge, ornate hat rested on the table, and the diamond brooch on his shoulder could literally blind people.

Chandler swallowed down the rock in his throat, never realising when it accumulated. He couldn't do it. He couldn't go in and face him and hold his own. He couldn't still forgive him that he left without a goodbye, without even a simple pat on the back. For a while he just stood gazing through the rain-dotted glass barrier, his insides flipping in anticipation, tears clouding his sight.

He turned to walk home. He couldn't do it.

It had been like a knife to the gut. He shouldn't have gone through it in the first place. It was about nine o' clock at night when he finally knocked home, a little drunk and drowsy, his chest burning, his trouser pocket bulging with a half-done packet of cigarettes. He had fallen off the wagon. He had stood up his own father. He couldn't possibly loathe himself more.

"Hey," and there was Monica, as cheery as ever, setting the table, "How was it?"

"Good," he lied, not daring to look up for she'd realise something was wrong. He fell over on the couch, groaning.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

She rambled happily. "I made you Mac and cheese."

"Uh huh."

"So, er, what did he say?"

"Can we talk about this later?"

"C'mon, Chandler, don't you feel better already about it?"

"Sure," he replied acidly, burying his face so deep into the cushion his words came out muffled.

"Hey," her tone softened; she had probably sensed it. He heard her footsteps towards the couch. "Are you okay? Chandler, you gotta – did you smoke?"

"I did."

She gasped at his curtness. "Wha – what – why would you – I can't believe this. You were good for a month!"

Now she was getting on his nerves. His vision blurred, and his head buzzing, he irritably turned to face her. She had folded her arms and furrowed her eyebrows together and stiffened her jaw. It angered him even more. So he had a few cigarettes. What was the big deal?

He found out he was a bit more drunk than he had thought when he automatically uttered it. Monica's jaw dropped in sheer disbelief, "How is it _not_ a big deal?"

"I'm not gonna argue with you."

"And you're drunk as well. When are you gonna pull yourself together, goddamnit?"

"Again, what's the big deal?"

"What the hell is the _matter_ with you?!"

"Knock it off, Monica," he deadpanned and shovelled his face into the cushion again.

"God. I can't believe this. Do you remember the last time you were drunk and on the roads?"

He wished she would at least buckle once. He clearly wasn't thinking straight, his father's face was still flashing back, and he was worried he would blurt out something offensive any moment if she continued to push him over the edge.

She took a deep breath, tapped her foot anxiously. "You know what, I'm done. I'm gonna get you out of the hellhole you're digging for yourself. I'm gonna call Kathy."

There went his last straw of patience. He leaped to his feet all of a sudden, his temple throbbing with anger. She had it coming, and for that very second he wasn't even sorry.

"You know what? There are better ways to get rid of me. If you thought I wasn't good enough in the first place, you should've just told me the day we planned to do _this_ together. I guess I'll move out then."

"Chandler, I didn't mean –"

"I've had enough." He had stormed past her and slammed the door to his room.

* * *

"I think I'm in love."

Monica's eyes flew open at the words. "But you've been going out only two weeks."

Ross looked pensive, walked around the space and halted at the fridge. "I know, but, when I'm with Emily, I feel different. There's this ease between us that I can't even... and now she's leaving – don't you have any beer?"

"Nah, had an aversion to the smell," she said, slumped dejectedly on the chair. Ross must've had thought he was having a tough time explaining, but truth be told, she knew exactly how he felt.

Although it was really Chandler and not his drunkenness talking that day, he hadn't moved out. He was in sync with the usual routine, taking her for the weekly check-ups, holding back her hair when she puked every morning, but he hadn't been speaking to her. No one bowed and now they hadn't spoken to each other for a week, and it felt like a road trip to the highway of hell.

That was pretty hyperbolic, but yes, she _was_ miserably low. There was a wriggling in her stomach and a burning in her chest everytime they looked at each other but didn't talk. She thought he might've come around when he had pulled out that three-day old cold Mac and cheese to eat, but that was all; he made a beeline for his room, never even bothering to point out she was reading the magazine upside-down (in itself a deliberate, desperate effort to make him talk, but well). Forgetting his birthday because of an unnecessary and badly-timed hoopla hadn't helped it either.

"Monica, what do I do?"

She broke out of the trance. "Tell her you love her." Yes, communicate.

"What? She'd be scared out of her wits."

"Ross, you just said you love her."

"Yeah, but she doesn't need to know that, does she..."

"Ross," Monica chastised him, "Who cares if it's fast? If you both think it's right, then it's right."

"You think?"

"I do."

It was probably the raging pregnancy hormones that made her miss Chandler so bad. Heaven knew why her mind continued to parallel it with whatever Ross said. By no means was she in love – the thought of it felt like a far-fetched joke – with Chandler. It was not easy to love again, and the pang of guilt with the rush that came every time she locked eyes with some random stranger on the subway definitely hadn't made it easier. It had only been two months since Richard died. Two months since she was an inch close to happiness when everything had shattered.

And then there was Chandler – one of her best friends trying so hard making it better for her – and she was... confused about him? Wrong wrong wrong. So _bloody_ wrong of her. It must've been Satan's hormones at work.

Love was an impossibility. Maybe liking? _No_. No no no no no.

Hormones. Hormones were the answer. The damned reason why everything was so exaggerated. Why the idea of him moving out scared the living daylights out of her. Why she didn't even want him going back to Joey, let alone Kathy, no matter how selfish and unreasonable it sounded. Why he suddenly became this one person she couldn't bear to lose.

"Monica?" Ross clapped before her eyes, "Come back to earth."

"Huh?"

"What do I do about Emily?"

All of a sudden, she got to her feet, rushed to the door and retrieved her brother's jacket. "You wear this thing, and go to the airport and tell her you love her. You go get her, Ross, or you'll regret it forever."

"You – you really think?"

She smiled. "I swear. Later, you'd only wish if things were this simple. So go for it, hero."

* * *

Maybe she should apologise.

Although he was the one who yelled. He was the one who inexplicably lost his temper as soon as she mentioned Kathy. He was the one who used sharp, hurtful words. But maybe she should apologise. After all, it was she who came down on him a little too hard all when he was going through an emotional turmoil.

But now? After a whole week? She only hoped she wasn't too late.

Monica had no idea how to come about. She arranged the photo albums, baked almond cookies, bought three bottles of Yoo-hoo, cleaned the bathroom twice, dusted the damned brown barcalounger, and wiped the centre table shiny waiting for him to come home. And around seven in the evening, he finally did.

As soon as he opened the door, she began to flip the pages of the book that lay right by her side on the kitchen table, pretending to read. She didn't want to go all "Welcome home!" creepy-smiley out of the blue; rather take it slow.

Without a word, he went over and settled on the couch, the briefcase on the floor. At loss about what to do, he picked the remote and started switching through the TV channels.

Monica bit at her nails. "Heyyy," she called out, a little louder and whinier that she expected. It was the why-you-touched-my-TV _hey_ , and not how-was-your-day _hey_.

He looked at her over his shoulder. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Just heyyy."

"Okay."

She wanted to slam her own face into the table. Hell, she wanted to slam his face into the table too. Why was he doing this? One week was enough, she couldn't take it anymore. And the apology plan was miserably failing. What could possibly turn him around?

Then she hit upon an idea. And she was undoubtedly going to hell for it.

"Ugh, owhh.. aarggh!" she screamed painfully, clasping her bump with her arms and doubling over. The effect was instant; Chandler half-glanced around, jumped over the couch and hurtled to her aid.

"What what what – what is it?" he rambled worriedly, the phone already in his hand, speed-dialling the doctor, "Monica, _what_ is it?!"

She pursed her lips together, and stared up at him like a kid who had just broken and expensive watch and hadn't been able to hide it too well. "I gotcha."

Chandler's shoulders relaxed; he glared at her, disconnected the phone and tossed it over on the couch. But maybe it worked; she could see this ghost of a smile creeping up on his lips that he desperately tried to cover. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

"It was a cheap shot, I know."

"Yes it was."

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, next time leave the funny to me. You're not too good at it."

"So, um, are we okay?" she asked cautiously.

He bent his knees to the level of the chair, held her hands and looked her straight in the eye. He effortlessly locked his fingers with hers. She wondered how he was bad at relationships; he really needed to give himself a little more credit. He smiled, "Yeah, we are okay. But Monica, do me a favour. Never talk about Kathy again."

"Okay," she relented. She thought she'd ask the deal about it later.

"And for what it's worth, I'm sorry too."

She grinned, her eyes brimming with abrupt tears. "You won't leave."

"I won't leave."

A tiny tear rolled down the bridge of her nose even as she sniffed. Chandler reached out for a tissue, "I'll be there to make you salmon dumplings and wipe your snot off my sleeve and – "

Then came an odd impulse.

Monica threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. Shut her eyes and grazed her fingers through his hair. It was only a few seconds – she wasn't even sure if he kissed her back – before the gravity of it smacked her on the face. She blinked and broke apart with a gasp. It left her head stirring, and him shaken off his balance, watching the ceiling and scratching the back of his head.

"Well _that_ doesn't happen often –"

"Chandler, I'm sorry I –"

"– Yeah, I know –"

"– You know, I didn't mean to –"

"– Yes, totally okay, Mon –"

"– Yeah, it's the hormones –"

"– I understand, really."

She felt the heat burning her back, so much so it might've charred her clothes. Chandler got to his feet and walked to his room, overtly casual; she guessed he thought whistling _Annie_ was a good way to pretend nothing had happened. Her own heart throbbing, out of fear and heat and this complicated muddle she didn't want to step into, she buried her head into her palms and sighed.

Damn these pregnancy hormones.

* * *

 **Hello-dillo, I returned a little earlier than promised, hehe! I guess your love can't keep me away (corny as fuck, I know). Please do review! :***


	9. Chapter 9

VIII

* * *

Morning was such a struggle. Especially when one was hungry and the chick was on its way to become a rooster – it was almost like living with a ghost of a _PMS_ ing woman. Joey let out a defeated sigh, having chased the rooster around the living room for the past fifteen minutes, crushing an egg roll on the floor and knocking off the porcelain mermaid near the window ledge. What wouldn't he give for a different kind of chick war to be the first thing to witness right after he got off the bed.

The door flung open and Chandler walked in as if he were sleepwalking, dazed and looking forth, a side of his hair fluffed up like a bird's nest, still in his baggy Knicks sweats. He looked down at Joey and grimaced. "What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

Joey pulled together his legs spread invitingly on the floor and got to his feet, grinning awkwardly. "Was chasing the chick. Mornin'."

Chandler gave him an understanding nod. "It's 1 o' clock in the afternoon, man."

"Why're you in sweats, then?"

"It's a Sunday."

Joey pranced by him to his fridge, picked out a carton of condensed milk, and snickered. "Then what are you makin' me feel guilty about?"

He shrugged with a non-committal jerk of head, "Nothing, nothing. Just the fifth time I came to check on you."

That caught his attention, as Joey turned to him while he went ahead and slouched on the recliner. Joey remembered how Chandler and Monica had been in the middle of an argument for a week; Chandler never told him what it was about, but it must've been something really serious – neither of them had a reputation for staying mad too long. More problems on the ship? Right then though, Chandler didn't particularly look dejected as he reached out to feed a flake of cereal to the duck.

Joey treaded carefully. "What's up, Chandler?"

Chandler made a poker-face, pouted and pursed his lips, and subtly went through thirty different expressions and two long sighs before he said, "Monica kissed me."

Something told him Chandler was on the fence about the whole thing; he was dreading it all while bursting to tell the tale. However, the moment he let out the little titbit, Joey felt an explosion of rainbows. Rainbows – one, crappy murky solid – zero. _Take that Rach_ , he smiled to himself, before piping excitedly, "On the lips?!"

Chandler looked at him as if Joey just asked him to hang himself upside-down by the torch of the Statue of Liberty. "No, no no," he rolled his eyes, "on the forehead. You see, I won against a million swimmers and gave birth to myself the other day."

Joey ignored the annoying Chandler-isms, and diverted the subject. "Tongue?"

"No, no. Too short for tongue."

"So," asked Joey, "What does it mean? You guys are together now or somethin'?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, "she said it was pregnancy hormones... that she got real emotional... this isn't fair. This is _so_ not fair. I'm trying to do a nice thing here – and the whole universe is just conspiring against me!"

"Well," Joey rammed a spoon into his cereal bowl, scratching his chin, "it's not surprisin'. My sister Cookie went kind of nuts in middle of her pregnancy; she almost came on to the mailman. But of course, then her husband was in prison... Look, Chandler, you signed up for this. You gotta handle your hungry horny woman."

"I know, I know. It's just – it's like the Bermuda triangle. You put everything in, but nothing, _nothing_ ever comes out of it!" He clapped his palms onto his face in frustration, crumpling up into a ball on the barcalounger. Joey rested his breakfast bowl at the counter and was about to put a step out to comfort him, when Rachel burst into the room.

"Ross is going out with that witch Emily? Emily?!"

Chandler gave her a dead gaze through the gap between his fingers. "Hey, Rach."

"He's going out with her?!" she flailed her arms about as if performing a soliloquy on the stage, "Do you remember how she was when she ran up to the apartment?"

Joey could flash back the sloppy wet figure of a not-so-good-natured brown-haired British girl with a big Toblerone bar walking in two weeks ago, snapping at Rachel about being strip-searched at the airport ("Apparently I look like someone with cocaine stuffed up their bum," she had growled) and storming out like a thirty-second ad that had shocked them to the core. He rubbed Rachel's back reassuringly. "Sorry, Rach."

"It was supposed to be a two-week thing. She was supposed to go back and live happily ever after in a horse carriage in some _Walthamshire_! She was not supposed to be held back and told 'I love you' and make out in the cockpit!"

Quite certainly Rachel had no idea what kind of an airport term a cockpit was. Chandler and Joey exchanged stunned, bewildered looks. Chandler raised his eyebrows so high they disappeared into his morning mess of hair. "He told her he loves her? After two weeks?"

"Yes!" Rachel looked a little relieved at someone finally sharing the incredulity, "Can you believe it? You know what, I hope they shack up together, maybe kick me out of the apartment and I'd live like a crazy single cat lady on the streets for the rest of my life!"

Joey didn't know what to say, so he continued to rub her back. Chandler was sheepishly glancing around the room; helpless in the face of how fast it escalated, perhaps browsing for a different subject to interact on. Rachel shrugged, and began on a relatively bored note, "Where's Monica?"

"She went to the hardware store for the baby-proofing stuff," replied Chandler.

"Already?" she laughed, "What does she think, the newborn is gonna pop her finger into the plughole?"

"Look, if you think you can make her see the point, be my guest."

Still smirking, Rachel left for Apartment 20 even as they breathed a giant sigh of relief, still a little shaken by the drama and not sure what they had been talking about before she began the rant. Joey moved the bowl to the sink with a loud clunk, and skid to the living space, settling on the couch and attempting to casually ricochet back to the former topic. "So what are you gonna do about Monica?"

Chandler glared at him. "What am I gonna do? There is _nothing_ to do."

"Look, Chan," he uttered carefully, "Take this as a guy word," he pointed at the door, as if the path still had trails of Rachel's footsteps, "This screaming woman was a living and breathing example of what happens when you're too late to make your move. You don't want that, do you?"

* * *

"Phoebe, I'm going batshit crazy here. You gotta help me."

Monica nudged her casually. However, they froze at their places as soon as Chandler erupted from behind the flimsy curtain of the ice cream parlour again, holding a sizeably tempting black currant cone, as he walked over and handed it to Monica, before turning to Phoebe, "They don't have your _Berty Potter's Peanut Butter Pandemonium_ , Pheebs."

Monica inwardly laughed at his subtle eye roll at the name. But right then, they required talking behind his back and he ought to be sent back to the burrow. She continued to nudge; Phoebe seemed to gather all the right hints.

"Okay, okay, why don't you get the _Kryptonite Mint Cookie Crumble_ one? It was definitely on the catalogue."

"Kay, but if not, then you're getting two dollops of vanilla."

"Fair enough."

The moment he turned his back and trotted his way out of earshot, Phoebe wheeled at her with a fierce whisper, "What, what _what_?"

Okay, this was really difficult to talk about, even with Phoebe. Monica clenched her teeth and scratched the back of her head, and prepared for the worst judgemental look that her zany friend could possibly elicit. Phoebe poked her to just spit it out, while she squinted, "I think, I think the fourth month's making me unusually attracted to everything."

"Unusually attracted?" Phoebe repeated, as if she heard a joke, "You mean, horny?"

"Yeah," she deadpanned, "Thanks Pheebs."

"Why don't you ask your doctor about this? Maybe she can give you something to control the... hormones."

"I can," Monica shook her head, "but that'll hardly be some damage control."

Phoebe gasped, scandalised. "What did you do?"

"Um, I kissed Chandler."

And Phoebe gasped even harder. "What?! You kissed him? Like, actually kissed him? On the lips?"

Monica tried to toss aside the speck of annoyance at her gaping, disbelieving mouth. Probably she should break it to her that no, Chandler didn't have a tentacular monster for a tongue (knowing Phoebe, Monica would even have to follow it up with an after-note explaining the sarcasm of it before she went around actually spreading rumours... god, so _not_ worth the effort). On a second take, perhaps she read Phoebe's reaction all wrong. Maybe it was just the surprise at the act of it. Who knew.

"Yeah, we kissed," she said, her collar growing hot as she shuffled under her jacket, "It wasn't anything like that... basically I jumped on him."

"How did it happen?"

Her collar grew so hot she could practically bake an omelette on it. "I don't know," she moaned, "he was being sweet and he had that cute smile and blue eyes and – "

"Mon, Mon, did you explain it to him?"

"Yeah, I told him my hormones have gone nuts." This sounded so much better than the mumble jumble of a reasoning she had actually given him before he had whistled his way out of the living room.

As odd as it was, Phoebe heaved a deep sigh of relief. "Good, good."

There returned the unsurpassable twinge of annoyance. Monica made a noise that vaguely sounded like "hmphh," the other voice in her head screaming war at Phoebe who didn't even ask for details. It didn't matter, it didn't matter, she chanted in her mind like some low-key loony mantra.

"Look, it's okay you guys shared an intimate moment," Phoebe began on her own, "I've been through it. As long as you guys don't have a thing for each other, believe me, it'll phase out."

"Uh huh."

"You listening to me, right? It can get really ugly. He's your roommate."

Damn it. She hated it when Phoebe was right. She stared down at her melted purple cone and exhaled. "It's just..." she mumbled almost inaudibly, watching Phoebe turn to Chandler who had arrived with what looked like a double-scooped vanilla cone; a complex surge of a rant rose to her throat like bile. She had way too many things to say.

"Mon, keep up!" Chandler called out over his shoulder; the two of them had been almost a dozen yards up already, as it came like a distant voice through a tunnel.

"Nothing," she shook her head to herself, and jogged after.

* * *

He was dangerously dehydrated since the morning, coupled with random urges to pee. This wasn't a good thing. So not a good thing. This was the tenth toy shop and weirdly enough, Monica was even harder to please when it came to baby toys, in fact he was carrying more bags of Phoebe's whimsically purchased stuffed items (a massive gorilla, a spiky fish and a really ugly cross between a cat and ... something) than Monica's strict handpicking.

That being said, it wasn't even the point.

Monica kissed him last night. She literally threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. How was he supposed to pretend that never happened?

His mind smoothly slid back to his morning conversation with Joey. Only if Joey had stopped on his tracks right after the Rachel analogy, and furthermore, only if he hadn't made so much sense. It was Joey; he wasn't supposed to make sense. Although who knew, he couldn't quite count his fingers up to ten, but sure the moment he heard sex and relationships and kissing and underwear and pizza, he blessed like Rain Man.

"So what are you gonna do about Monica?"

"What am I gonna do? There is _nothing_ to do."

"Look Chan, take this as a guy word. This screaming woman was a living and breathing example of what happens when you're too late to make your move. You don't want that, do you?"

Chandler had wanted to say no, but didn't quite utter it.

"Look, you don't know it," Joey had continued, "but she might just be into you. All you know is she had not realised it either."

"But Joe –"

"You gotta make your move, man. I want to see ya guys happy."

It wasn't that easy. Probably Chandler's guilty face had spoken. Joey had had a glance and anticipated it, and groaned. "Chandler, there are people around exchanging 'I love you's after hanging out for two weeks. Ya guys have known each other since ages! I look at you, and see you together, and it just ... fits."

That couldn't be true. That _couldn't_ just be true. She was Monica. She was this young responsible woman who had made herself on her own, who had her life sorted. She was beautiful and sophisticated. A little crazy, but that was a part of the package deal. He was... well, him.

"Hell, she's gotta move on from Richard one day, and as blunt as it sounds, I want that person to be you. The thing is, she looks at you and knows that's what she wants. But as a friend. You gotta show her you're – and you can be – wayyy more than that."

Joey had to be kidding by then.

"You make your move, man. You show her you're more than a funny dork who's lame with women."

He obviously saw Chandler's personal ad.

"You sweep her off her feet, Chandler Bing."

Of course, when somebody said a line like that and tail-ended it with a word like "Bing", it could cost them all the swagger points. See, it was imbibed in the name itself. He couldn't be cool. And even worse, he could never make a move.

"I'm going to the departmental store. You guys want anything?" Phoebe's voice came through like breaking glass.

"A Snickers bar for me," said Monica, "Man I'm so hungry I wish these toys were made of candy."

Phoebe probably read Chandler's subdued point-blank expression as a "Nothing for me, Pheebs" shrug and set off. He watched Monica from a distance. Her hair messy and curled locks falling against her face – somehow held back by an insignificant bandana – she looked like Botticelli's Madonna against the evening light. Boy, was he in love. But he wasn't too scared this time to think about it; all the more because he had nothing – and everything – to lose.

What about the _move_ though? He had to be bonkers to even consider this.

 _Look at her go. What kind of move can I make?_ He racked his brains. Maybe a new kind of walk. No, no. Failed everytime. He didn't really think paddling around like Donald Duck on cocaine was going to help him here. Maybe a joke? No, ugh. He had to stay away from that mantrap. What about the drumstick thing? That was cool. He thudded his knuckles against his forehead. _Ba dum pum phftsssh?_ Really?

Maybe he could take a cue from the people Monica used to like. Maybe he could grow a moustache and smoke a cigar while holding his crotch and revelling in his own non-existent machismo. Maybe he could sign up for UFC and get his nose broken.

"What – what's so funny?" asked Monica. She must've had caught him grinning at his own lame mind.

He reddened a little, ready to babble anything that came across the top of his head, "Uhm, ahh – this – this stupid joke Ross told me yesterday."

"Yeah? What is it?" She seemed genuinely curious.

 _Come on, Bing. Open the stack. Make her laugh. It's the one and only thing you're good at_. He pretended to think for a while, "Oh, no. You won't like it. It was verrrry offensive."

"Oh please –"

"No, seriously, I'm telling you."

He turned towards the counter. He wished he could get a Glock and blow his own brains out. That wasn't charming. That wasn't charming at all. He had a chance and he blew it big time. Where were all the damned jokes in the world when you needed them? What in the name of God was wrong with him?

 _Ooh, don't open that door._

 _Oh yes, joke to your head now. A pretty girl asks and you just shut your blinders down._

 _Stop talking to yourself, you miserable, miserable man._

 _I'm gonna make a move to kill Joey._

"Hey," Monica tapped on his shoulder; he looked over, she was laughing at a spotted dino toy, holding it by its jaw, "I think I'm gonna get this one for Ross. You know how he –"

"Chandler?"

His insides twisted at the familiar voice behind him even as Monica stopped short on her tracks. He wheeled slowly, knowing the face would pack a gut-punch to knock the breath out of him; already having put on a forced smile, he began, "Oh, hey... Kathy. Wow, kind of surprising to see you here, you know, at a toy shop."

He sensed like he blabbered a little too much. Kathy was beaming. He didn't know if it was sincere or just out of social compulsion. She seemed to have had a new haircut; it kind of resembled the bob she had when they first met. Her popping up all of a sudden did make Chandler back off a little, even more so because he possibly couldn't have expected to be greeted with such a bright smile.

"I was just looking for a birthday gift for my nephew Ned, and my sister Glenda's expecting another," she said. Her eyes met Monica's and her smile turned even more saccharine – now there was _definitely_ something weird about it.

"How're you, Kathy?" asked Monica gently.

"Oh, I'm great, Monica," she reached out for Monica's bump, "My god, this is so adorable! Five months, isn't it?"

"Almost," Monica replied, already a little awkward, "You know, um, er, I think I'll go check on Phoebe – she's been in the store for ages –"

And with it, Monica set off hurriedly, almost jogging out of the shop. Chandler watched her go, waited till they were out of anyone's earshot and fiercely turned to Kathy. "Okay, you don't have a nephew Ned and you definitely don't have a sister Glenda. What are you doing here? Are you following me?"

Kathy looked away, red patches of guilt slowly etching around her ears. "I was not... following you."

"Then what?"

"Okay," she surrendered, "I had been following you for the last half an hour. I saw you on the street and ... I'm too scared to go to your apartment, or your office."

He scoffed. "Um, sorry to break it but aren't we over?"

"I still love you."

" _Don't_ ," he raised a finger, his voice starting to shake, "Just don't."

"I know I was in the wrong, and I lied... but that was a year ago, and everything was fine. Why can't we work it out?"

"Kathy, no –"

"I'm ready to wait. Maybe after you're done looking after _her_."

His brow twitched at the amount of spite the last word carried. He didn't blame her though, maybe it was natural instinct. He fixed his gaze at the floor and traced the linings of the tiles in silence. Kathy grabbed his hand, and he let her, like a lifeless rag doll.

"You look at me, Chandler," she warned him, her voice pulsing with emotion, "You look at me and tell me you don't love me and I'll walk right out of the door."

* * *

"Do you need my night-vision goggles?" Phoebe sighed at Monica, who had her nose hard-pressed against the tinted glass of the barrier for the last ten minutes.

"I'm good," Monica sassed, breaking into a light grin at her own reply, even as Phoebe sighed again.

"Why are you spying at them?"

"I'm not spying," she said absent-mindedly, "I'm peeking."

"Why?"

"But these damned toys and that stupid two-way glass case; I don't want to see my own face staring back at me while I'm trying to locate people!"

"Monica," Phoebe chastised her the last time, before joining the club, sticking her cheek to the glass, "Look, there's Kathy. She's – is she crying? They're making up – they're – move your ass away, you fat weirdo, you're blocking my sight! You, with the creepy fangled ball! _Mooove_ aside!"

"Phoebe, he can't hear you," said Monica, "And you're scaring the pedestrians." Her stomach had already begun to churn.

They were making up? What did that even mean?

They couldn't make up now. It had been months, and more importantly, Chandler couldn't take the sight of her, whatever the reason was. Last time she was mentioned, he was hurt and furious, and Monica ended up having a huge fight with him instead. He surely didn't wish to go back to that, did he?

Maybe he did. Maybe he was just upset. Only last day she had burst out crying at the thought of him leaving. And now she could picture it too well – Chandler packing up his bags, giving her a quick hug and a kiss on the forehead and climbing into a taxi. Forwarded six months, and she could imagine hearing from him for the first time in ages, with a wedding invitation. The next thing she knew, he was living in the suburbs with children playing on the front yard.

She couldn't quite figure the inexplicable emotion that rose to her throat and set her heart thumping, but it sure felt a little like dread.

"You know, I do wish they get together again," Phoebe interrupted dreamily, "Weren't they sweet?"

Monica knew what she was talking about. There was a certain thing about Chandler's starry-eyed gaze at Kathy when they were together. He used to look at her like she was the only thing that mattered. There was a delicate quality to his caresses and the way he cared about things and calmed her about her quirks that Monica had often envied. Yet it wasn't head over heels, it was _so_ appropriate. It was the flip side of this bitter, sarcastic, often emotionally stunted and distanced funny-man, and yes, _yes_ , she'd have to agree, it sometimes did take her breath away.

"Yeah, yeah, it was," Monica croaked.

"He's looking at her. Look, he's hugging her! Aw."

It felt like a final nail in the coffin. Monica fell on her back against the glass, her fingertips trembling, and her insides twisting into a knot. She took a deep breath and cleared her throat off the emotion, her spine still sending her chills and after chills. It was uncannily cold today. She grabbed her coat tighter to herself and pulled herself to a relatively happier note.

"Let's give them a moment, shall we? C'mon, let's go check out the Pottery Barn store."

* * *

 **Hello, children. A little late than I promised, I know. Got caught up with too many commitments and ... it's a long boring story no one wants to know, just like the one I'm writing, ha. :P Anyway, better late than never. Do review please! Special mentions to the amazing authors Singmyangel, matteney, titanicavatar, shannaplusklaus, ApoorvaHobbes, MondlerJordox, Bing-a-Ling27, Sere Bing , and the guests, and Hadley, you guys brighten my day, really. :***


	10. Chapter 10

IX

* * *

"...And so, I told her the truth about Monica. I did the right thing, right? You know what, I know I'm right. I'm right. _Right_?"

Well, the word was losing meaning now. He sighed, his elbows on the kitchen counter, his chin in his palms. The chick continued to peck and cry while the duck stood still on the stool, occasionally quacking, the only sincere listener of Chandler's long anecdote.

"Oh what d'you know, you're a duck."

He took the kettle of boiling milk off the gas and poured it into a mug, tore off a sachet of coffee and watched it settle at the bottom of the milk in defeat. He threw it all in the sink, and was about to get his jacket and walk down to the coffeehouse, when he heard a soft knock on the door.

"Rach?"

He found it rather alarming because Rachel never knocked. She stood at her door, her shoulders slouched and her arm weighed down with what looked like a heavy bag, hesitating to enter. Chandler ran up to her. "What happened?"

"D'you think Joey would let me live here?"

As taken aback as Chandler was, he knew he had to react fast. "Um, yeah, sure, why not, Rach. Come in."

She trotted in and slumped over on the barcalounger. By the looks of it, Chandler guessed she had another fight with Ross and left his place in a fit of rage. He sat on the arm of the recliner and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly, "Okay to talk about it?"

"I didn't mean to scream at him," she started the story midway, "we had words and he said I should be happy for him and Emily, and he's damn right I am! I'm happy. Don't I look happy?"

"Uh huh," he mumbled for the lack of an appropriate response.

"Of course I'm not happy! How can I be happy? It's Ross for God's sake. We break up, three months later get together again, break up again and months later begin to live together, and – and – I could feel we had feelings for each other – and then the Queen of England comes over and charms him in two weeks, and he throws away everything we had!"

She had broken into an angry sob by the end of it. His free arm closed in around her shoulder, as he asked in a low, sincere voice, "Why didn't you tell him about it?"

"I _knowwww_ ," she wailed in a pitched staccato, "I should've and I didn't. What do I do now?"

There wasn't much left to do, except to hope the couple broke up soon. He pouted, and raised his eyebrows, not wanting to throw the answer at her already devastated face. Almost a year ago everyone had believed Ross and Rachel belonged together, come whatever may. They were – as weird as it sounded to him – _lobsters._ He couldn't blame her for thinking the same, in fact, he was a little bitter at Ross – how could Ross be so oblivious to the obvious spark?

"It'll get better, Rach," he chimed in instead, and kissed the top of her head.

"It did get better for you, didn't it," she abruptly landed on a different note, rendered him a teasing lopsided smile, probably in an attempt to lighten herself, "I heard about the kiss."

"Yeah, well," he shrugged, adjusting his collar and going along the subject if that made her feel better, "Was it Joey?"

"Yeah, who else. Surprising Monica didn't talk about it."

"Not that surprising when you think about it." He followed it with a self-deprecating laugh. As much as he hated it, Rachel pursed her lips into that typical face of slight pity.

"Meant nothing, eh?"

"Well, she said so."

She patted his hand that rested on her shoulder. "Hang in there."

He laughed again, a prolonged pinching in his chest, like an old prick of a needle, "Yeah well, you know the Gellers don't really get it."

She stared up at him with this subdued sigh, and fell against the recliner, punch-drunk, her googly eyes at the ceiling. "We both are losers you won't _believe._ But Chandler?"

"Yup?"

"She really kissed you? On the _lips_?"

He mock-glared at her even as she giggled into his shirt, play-acting to punch the side of her head. "Yes, why does everyone keep fixating on that?"

It was almost as if lightning struck her, as she sprang to her feet so fast that he had to ricochet out of her way like a rubber band. She had a wide, bordering-on-animated smile on her face. "You know what would be fun?"

Chandler thought he could take some guesses.

* * *

It was killing her that they still hadn't talked about it. If only it hadn't been that stupid promise she had made to Chandler about never asking about Kathy again. Last day, after half an hour of revelling around great-looking furniture and digesting Phoebe's lecture about conglomerate exploitation, they found him waiting for them outside the store. He was pensive, almost unreadable, hands in his pockets. They never brought it up again.

She wondered if there was any – _news_ – Chandler wouldn't have been so mum about it. Maybe she had bogged him down, stood up like a big, pregnant block in his path to happiness. In all probability, he didn't want to break his promise of being the make-believe daddy.

"I have a surprise for you!"

Phoebe popped her head in all of a sudden through the gap of the door in a very accurate Jack Nicholson impression, even as Monica's wok fell to the floor in a loud clunk.

"What is it?" asked Monica flatly.

"Ta da!" cried Phoebe happily, as she dragged in through the door what looked like a humongous cutout of Evander Holyfield, "I stole it from a Foot Locker. Sexy, huh?"

Monica raised a nonplussed eyebrow. "What in God's name are we gonna do with it?"

"It's for your hormone thing," she replied innocently, even as Monica shoved her knuckles into her mouth to keep up a serious face. "Also," continued Phoebe, "we are going on a road trip around the city. We'll see strippers, meet nice guys and maybe have some ice cream on the way back. I've got my grandmother's cab waiting downstairs."

"That sounds ridiculous, Pheebs."

"You got a better thing to do?" she asked sharply.

Monica pouted in surrender. Phoebe was right; ever since she had been on maternity she was perpetually pissed at her inability to do most of the usual stuff. A lot of food smells made her nauseous, and all she could do was scrub and clean, and unfortunately, there was a limit to that. But strippers and flings? Why not movies and laundry?

"So, you're coming," Phoebe jumped in excitement.

"Hey," Rachel walked into their conversation with the unusually sad greeting, passed by them and settled on the couch, grabbing a magazine.

"You're early," Monica turned to her, arms akimbo.

"Well, I'm earlier than you'd ever imagine," she mumbled, her eyes never leaving the glossy pages, "I had a huge-ass fight with Ross at the crack of the dawn and moved out."

Phoebe gasped. "My god, Rach, are you okay?"

"Yeah," she drawled out, "if it hadn't been for that pedicure I probably wouldn't have been, but I'm good. Ross is with Emily now, it would've happened sooner or later, plus I'm staying over at Joey's so I'm having fun."

"You wanna go on a road trip?"

Rachel considered for a moment. "Uh, you know, I just had my nails done, and I gotta shift my stuff... boots and dust torture, I don't think so."

Still, Monica paced towards her, hand on her shoulder. Usually she could see through Rachel, and she could tell Rachel didn't look all that upset – more like, confused and preoccupied. She threw an awkward glance at Phoebe, not sure what to do, then half-muttered an excuse, "Umm, I can't leave the apartment on its own... didn't even tell Chandler, he never reads notes and I've lost track of him since the morning –"

"Hey, this reminds me," Rachel jumped upright, throwing the magazine aside, "Guess who we bumped into in the parlour."

Phoebe laughed. "You took Chandler to the parlour?"

"He was curious," Rachel explained in a terrible impression of him, "he was all like, _ooh how couldcha pay a fortune for scrubbing your toenails_ , so I dragged him there. And guess who we bumped into – Janice!"

Ah, Janice and her great big habit of popping in and out of Chandler's life, and tattering it with her machine gun-fire laughter. Monica sighed comically. "So he's off with Janice now?"

"She literally jumped on him like a mountaineer, and just – clung on to him. Poor guy's probably roaming around the city, trying to fend her off."

"Wow," Phoebe stared at the ceiling, as if impressed, "Suddenly it's like hermit man's having all the ladies."

* * *

"Phoebe, I'm not getting a good feeling about this."

"Oh, Mon, would you relax?"

Phoebe grinned widely into the flashing neon lights and did a little jig to what Monica thought was mind-numbingly loud music, before they headed on to the bar counter. Monica wasn't even sure what she was doing there; she had tried a hundred excuses but there was no stopping the Phoebe machine.

"Ladies?" the bartender ushered them as they climbed onto the stools.

"One peppermint margarita for me," said Phoebe, "and a virgin for her."

"I shouldn't have let you talk me into this," Monica grumbled under her breath.

"Why not? You're pretty and you have raging hormones. You might as well take some advantage out of it."

"I'm carrying a baby!"

"So what?" Phoebe looked at her incredulously, an expression that complimented her crazy braided bun and strands sticking out at odd angles too well, "Your bump is big enough. Any man that comes to you will know it's part of the deal!"

The music was loud enough, so Monica pretended not to hear a word of what she said. The drinks arrived, and she turned a slight angle away, sipping quietly, hoping that would pass the time. Then arrived another tap. She glanced at Phoebe over her shoulder.

"That guy's been staring at you for quite a while now," she pointed towards the end of the counter. A young man with gelled blond hair and the tuxedo winked and raised his glass. She nudged her teasingly, "So, what d'you think?"

"Uh, I don't think so."

"Why not? Look, Monica, you have to get on your feet again. It's not simple, but you gotta begin somewhere. I know you're not ready for a massive commitment... but this kind of loneliness is not good for the baby."

"I'm not lonely, Phoebe." She had a roommate. And a pretty good one if she might say so.

"I understand, Mon. When my mom died –"

"Pheebs, it's not that. I'm just not attracted to the guy."

Phoebe squinted as if she were hard of vision, and then gave out a loud derisive laugh, "Are you kidding me? Look at his cheekbones, they can cut glass! By the way, you're the one telling me you're attracted to everything right now. Then an insanely attractive guy likes you and you say you're not interested? What is up with you?"

"Trust me, I don't know," Monica mumbled almost inaudibly, before she yelled over the music, "Hey, maybe the hormone thing is phasing out!"

"Mon, we talked yesterday. You had kissed Chandler for crying out loud."

God knew why that particular comment touched on a vein of annoyance. She asked sharply, "You don't think Chandler can be attractive?"

Phoebe laughed again. "C'mon, it's Chandler."

"What, you don't like tall, cute, blue-eyed guys?" Monica wanted to sound curious, but it probably came out a little fiercer and defensive than needed.

"Doesn't matter, the guy's been our friend since Eve ate the apple. He's friend-zoned."

Monica chuckled at that. "Okay."

"And he knows you guys since – since Ross had that fluffy prom tape afro."

"Oh, you should've seen his. They used to look like partners in crime –"

"Hello," it was the blond man again, taking on the stool beside Monica's. Phoebe not-so-subtly scrunched her face up in victory, while Monica inwardly groaned as his gazed lingered on her, "Have I seen you anywhere before?"

"Nah, I don't think so," she smiled politely.

"Hi, I'm Phoebe," came the thankful interruption, "You are gorgeous but I have to go to the bathroom right now." And with it, she pranced out of the sight, leaving Monica alone and embarrassed in the much-abhorred spotlight.

"My friend's a bit crazy," she shook her head and faked a laugh.

"So you're expecting?"

"No, I thought it'd be a great idea to shoplift a football on the way."

The guy raised his eyebrows. She faked another laugh and sipped on the drink, the extent of the damage slowly coming to light. Boy, those were literally Chandler's words slipping through her lips, and when it came to dating, that could never mean a good thing. The guy began to speak, and whatever focus she had fizzed away – everything came in as a lovechild of random babbling and throbbing music.

In fact, she was a little worried. What would Chandler make of the fact she went gallivanting on a road trip, what with the sole purpose of looking for a fling? Not that he had a business to mind there... Even if she did hook up with someone, what was he to do with it? It still came off as a little guilty. She should've told him, and not pass off the message through Rachel and an Evander Holyfield cutout.

As horny as she was, she didn't want a fling. She had been flung far and far more often than she'd like to admit, on chance meetings like these.

"...And then, my wife suddenly says she wants a divorce. Isn't that ridiculous?"

"Uh huh," she nodded sympathetically.

"So, what about your husband?"

"Oh, no. I'm not married. My fiancé had a car accident on my wedding day. He didn't survive." She was a little surprised at how much it still hurt.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," the guy brought in the most pitiful look his facial muscles could morph into, "Definitely worse than my divorce."

 _You'd think._ She tore her gaze away and rolled her eyes. "So, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, shoot."

"If your wife bumps into you, say, in a supermarket, she cries and you hug her, what kind of a signal are you sending off to your friends who were eavesdropping the conversation?"

"Um, _what_?"

She smirked sheepishly. "Just... a hypothetical situation. So?"

He raised his eyebrows again, to make sure he'd really have to go through it. Monica didn't budge, stared at him with expectant eyes and a sugary smile.

"Uh, do I know that my friends are eavesdropping?"

"No, no."

"Why are they eavesdropping?"

"They're eavesdropping because they care. Now, would you?"

"I don't know, maybe we wanna get back together."

"Now _that_ is the most obvious thing to happen. What else?"

"Uh..."

"Well, there you have a perfectly adequate answer."

He grinned a bit, "You know, it's funny because in college people called me the perfectly-adequate Hansen."

"Wow," she nodded, "in college people called me the anal girl."

The guy stroked his perfectly gelled hair, half-opened his mouth with a possible reply, lost it midway, climbed down his stool and chugged his drink at one go, and shook her hand – all in a matter if thirty seconds. "Nice to meet you. I'm Tom. I just noticed my friend calling me."

"... Because I was very – clean – and organised," she pushed it out somehow, hardly able to suppress the massive giggle, watching him hurtle his way into the dancing crowd and disappear. She called after him, "Neat as a Nazi!"

It was well worth a try though. With Phoebe in, this could be a fun day trolling.

* * *

The clock kept ticking.

Monica strutted to and fro across the living room. She looked up at it the umpteenth time - it was 11:30 already, and Chandler wasn't home. She had expected to be the one subject to questioning today, what with the abrupt road trip and disaster dating and cool blackjack money and all, but apparently no one had heard of Chandler since the debacle of a pedicure in the morning.

Still with Janice? It was a queer, no – almost an impossible story to stomach. Just couldn't be.

Maybe she should call Janice. She searched around for his phone book, rushed to his room; there was something odd about the place, it looked... emptyish. There were some stashes of bubble wrap on the floor, and some of the drawers - pulled out and empty. It felt fishy; what was going on and how come nobody knew?

She rubbed her chest to relieve some of the tension bubbling underneath, jumped at the suddenness of the sound of the knock at the door. Against all expectations, it was Joey.

"Heard anything?" she breathed.

"No, nothin'," he replied, "I'm guessin' he's hooked up with Janice."

"Okay, that didn't happen. That's borderline crazy."

He scoffed, "Tell me about it."

"Where did he go? D'you have Janice's number?"

Joey jerked his head, "I don't even know where she lives. No reason to," he thought for a moment before breaking into a triumphant grin, like a lightbulb flicked on, "Hey, but I do have Kathy's."

"What if this has nothing to do with his little black book of girlfriends? What if he's in trouble again?"

"Still worth a try," he said, and darted back to his apartment.

Kathy. This ambiguity with curious brown eyes and a burgundy bob hadn't stopped hovering over their (her?) heads since yesterday. Monica swallowed down a dry lump. She tried to draw a probable situation - Chandler, in order to get rid of Janice, ended up at Kathy's and just... stayed there, without any information? Her jaw tightened in anger. No, no, wait. It was unlikely. It wasn't a Chandler-like thing to do.

She instinctively threw her arm across to retrieve her jacket. Dropping at Kathy's at midnight? If, _if_ Chandler were there, they must have made love and gone to bed already. She flexed her knuckles, trying to shake it off.

"Hey," Joey slowly trotted back to the hallway, the phone in his hand, a little dazed as if he weren't sure what was happening, "I'm not sure what she said... but it definitely sounded like, _'hop in, it's a ball out here!'_ I think there's a party goin' on."

"You think Chandler's gonna be there?"

"Well, if he is, he's gonna get a piece of my mind," yelled Joey, grabbing a jacket, scrunching its sleeves and storming down the stairs, "See ya!"

Monica took a deep breath, a nail drilling in her chest. Well, he'd better be with Kathy than in some kind of trouble again. She exhaled, pushed the door ajar and walked over to the couch dejectedly. Her mind zoomed in on the night he had knocked on the door pale and bleeding, passed out in front of her... when Joey had told her those terrifying stories and asked for help...

 _"Frankly I had rushed up here expecting so much worse, Mon."..._

She was shaken out of the trance by the ringing of the phone. A quick glance at the clock - it was five minutes to midnight, who would call now? There was no way in hell Joey had reached Kathy's this fast and was calling back. Her heart thumped in her chest, the dread escalated in her throat so fast she had to bite her lips together to not send out a sharp yelp, even as she reached out for the receiver with a trembling hand.

"H- hello?"

"Hello, Mon?"

It was Chandler. He sounded okay. The dread fizzed like air out of a punctured balloon. She blew out a giant breath of relief.

"Mon?"

With the relief came a nasty bout of anger. She almost screamed into the phone, "Dammit Chandler, where the hell are you?"

"I'm in Yemen."

"You – _what_?"

"Yeah, my flight just landed."

"Come again?"

"I'm in Yemen and my flight just landed."

Monica wasn't even sure how to react. His words certainly didn't have the sarcastic after-tone, even so before she considered the truth in them, she must clarify.

"Is this a joke?"

"No, no," he replied urgently, "Look, I'm an idiot, I just – _hey, you wait for you chance, I'm on the payphone now, lemme finish!_ – sorry, where was I – yes, I'm an idiot. I told Janice that my company shifted me to Yemen."

Telling was one thing, going right through it was another. She hummed, "Okay..."

"I had to. There wasn't any way I could get rid of her."

"Well, couldn't you have come up with something better than the most outrageous idea ever?"

She could hear him flipping out on the other end. "Well, my ears were bleeding so bad from that laugh... she literally jumped on me! What'd you have done anyway?"

"I dunno, maybe you could've said something like – like, _we_ are a couple now, and you got me pregnant, and we're getting married – or _something_."

He didn't speak for a minute. She held back a giggle. Then he groaned in a low, defeated tone, "Yeah you're right. I could've done that."

"When are you coming back?"

"Right now. Any moment I can get a flight back. This rabbi guy has been staring at me since an hour now. I'll call you as soon as I get a plane. Bye Mon."

"Bye, honey." The term of endearment just slipped out without warning.

She didn't mind though. A silly smile etched on her face, she crumbled along the length of the couch, the phone at the head, near enough to alarm her awake. It felt nice to think at least she'd be getting a good night's sleep.

* * *

 **i AM SO SORRY FOR THIS DULL ASS CHAPTER I PROMISE I SO SO PROMISE I WILL MAKE IT UP TO YOU WITH THE NEXT ONE COMING REALLY REALLY SOON. Also, I stole two lines right out of a movie. :P**


	11. Chapter 11

X

* * *

She flipped through the channels, bored. She had flipped them through what, ten, fifteen times. Occasionally she paused at the Woody Allen marathon, her enthusiasm fluctuating to a high with a glance at Diane Keaton's smile, and then to a sporadic bitter low at the fact that she was too distracted to watch a movie.

It was almost time, and delays considered, he should already be in a cab home right now. She checked the watch – it was 4:30 a.m in the morning, and she had been drifting in and out of sleep...

"You awake at this hour?"

She jumped and looked over the couch. Chandler had opened the door and was halfway through the living room, dragging in a trolley suitcase. Monica bit her lip and smiled. Either he would make an amazingly sneaky criminal or she was just too sleepy to think straight.

"So, how was Yemen?"

He gave her a glare, "Very funny. I lost four thousand dollars on an airport tour, had to stay crumpled up with a bag at a corner for ten hours, and would have to live in fear ever after that I don't bump into her on the New York streets. I think I need a shower."

He shoved his baggage aside and darted towards the bathroom. Monica slumped back on the couch, hands behind her head, mentally went through a tiny list of things that happened during his absence she wanted to tell him about... there wasn't much apart from the questionable road trip, and the fact Joey looked like he had indulged into a hissy fit with a drunk Kathy when he returned the next morning.

She startled awake again, this time finding Chandler beside her, crankily staring ahead and changing channels. His wet hair stood up as if electrocuted, he exuded this musky scent that somewhat made a knot at the pit of her stomach. God, Satan's hormones at work again. And this time they have a nice-smelling soap on their side.

"Aren't you gonna sleep?" she mumbled.

"I'm a little jet-lagged, but I've been sleeping for the last twenty four hours," he told her, "So..."

"Oh," she blinked confusedly, and then shut her eyes tight. Nothing, no sleep. They were dry as a desert. On top of it, the scent was very distracting. "Is that a new soap you're using?"

He looked as if he were a little bewildered at her choice of topic. "Yes, apparently it's this new big thing in the market... wait a minute, it sucks, doesn't it?"

"No, no. It's umm... very attractive."

He did a double take. "Attractive?"

"I mean, umm, I don't mind the scent. It has a very, uh, very... new and sen...sual quality to it."

"Maybe it's just me," he quipped.

Monica guffawed aloud, almost in an attempt to phase out the knotting of her insides. "You wish."

For the next minute, nobody talked; they just gazed blankly into the TV screen – it took her a while to notice the Woody Allen thing was still going on. As soon as the minute of awkwardness passed, Chandler began, "So, how's little Yasmine?"

"She's becoming a loud rooster."

"Not that one," he said, with an affectionate touch on her belly, "this one."

"Oh. She's kicking."

"Yeah? That's great," he rubbed it lightly, even as Monica bit her lip, "Are you okay?"

"Yes, yes. I'm a little – horny-hormoney."

"Oh," his hand sprang away from her as if deflected by a magnet, "Sorry."

She buried her face into her palms, wanting to pull out all her hair, "These hormones are driving me crazy. They are moody and – unpredictable – it's like a meta thing happening in _there_! The other day, Phoebe took me to this club – great men, but I felt nothing. Nada."

"You – you went on a date?"

"Wasn't exactly a date..." she continued to rant, "it was awful. The loud music got my head all throbbing, I practically shooed away a guy because I had nothing better to do... I'm at rock bottom. I'm too damaged to have a relationship again, and I'm too – uncertain – about having sex with a complete stranger."

"Hey," he squeezed her hand, "It's just a phase."

"But it's so tiresome! It's like, all the day I'm internally asking, hey, you wanna do it with me?"

"Sure."

She turned sharply. "What?"

"What?"

"What did you say?"

Chandler pursed his lips and scratched the back of his head, "I said, sure. Like, _sure_ , Bobbie, it's gonna rain today. Sure, _sure_."

"...Okay."

Monica lifted her feet up the table to ease herself; she had to wrap her arms around her to control the bursting adrenaline. A bigger, stretched moment of awkwardness came that just didn't seem to pass. She watched Chandler fidgeting with the remote control. "You know I thought..."

"...Yeah, but no – no." He chuckled nervously.

"Yeah. We're friends."

"Yeah. That – _my_ _friend_ – is very important."

She nodded ostensibly. "Yes, yes. Very important. Now suppose it happens in the spur of the moment –"

" _Suppose_ ," he stressed.

"Now, _suppose_ it happens – we ought to make sure that nothing, _nothing_ changes the equation."

"Yes, nothing. It'll be like one friend helping out another friend."

"Exactly," she patted on his shoulder, "Others don't need to know."

"Absolutely. Nobody's allowed to judge."

"So?"

She looked earnestly at him. He was nervous; more than nervous, he was scared. She seemed to be oscillating between two voices – one that screamed how this was a goddamn ridiculous mistake – a mistake that was luring her to ruin their friendship for some jumpy useless hormones – and the other that egged on with a _'screw it, we'll see what happens later'_. She shifted closer to him, the heat on her neck searing through her collar already. He caressed her cheek. It tingled.

He breathed. "So, I guess...?"

She stared deep into his blue eyes. "Screw it, we'll see what happens later."

She was relieved the very blunt statement didn't freak him out; instead, she was welcomed by his trademark smirk. She took it as a gesture of permission and threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. Didn't smother his face like last time, but touched his lips tenderly, almost like a peck.

He tucked his hands behind her ears, digging them into her hair, pulling her closer. She felt the bubble burst inside her – the tender became passionate, spreading like a wildfire, inching out to the extremities of her finger tips. She broke apart; any further and she'd surely fall.

Chandler frowned. "What's wrong?"

"You know what's weird? This doesn't feel weird," she dropped in a much needed moment of amusement. He grinned. Monica sighed subtly; it was one of the rules – in any case, she must _not_ fall.

"And you're a really good kisser," she added.

"Well, I've kissed over four women."

"Four?"

"Four hot women," his warm breath tickled her neck.

"Okay," she giggled. She wasn't complaining.

"Uh," Chandler glanced down at their entangled fingers, then up again at her forehead touching his, so close she could feel his breath was shallow and rapid; her hand traced down his belt and began to unbuckle it, "So, uh, should we move this into the bedroom?"

* * *

He woke up next to her, terrified.

Before he considered the credibility of what happened, he wondered if it really happened – it must've had, there couldn't be any other comprehensible reason why he was in bed with her naked under the sheets. The sunlight smacked him in the face and sent him in a tizzy and searching for his clothes. He found most of them scattered about in the room, except his sweatshirt; he glanced at the clock – it was almost 10:30 a.m and people might be there in the living room already.

Right then, coming bare-chested out of Monica's room to a group of people breakfasting, looking for a sweatshirt probably flopped somewhere around the couch didn't really put up a nice picture – although that should be the least of his worries.

His reality meter was pretty broken (battered? bruised?) by now, as he affectionately looked at the sleeping Monica. She seemed so in peace, the sunlight bouncing back her hair that fell against her bare shoulder. No, _no_. He looked away. They had promised each other it'd be nothing more than an act of pure animalistic lust, and right then, he couldn't do gooey dreamy eyes at her, not even at her sleeping, unconscious state.

It wouldn't be fair on her.

He readied to go out of the door. He decided if he encountered people outside, he'd behave as if there was nothing weird about topless prancing around the apartment. Maybe he could blame it on the radiator.

It was just Phoebe. He froze under the split-second of a suspicious glance she threw him, but then she broke into a laugh of mock-seduction, "Hello, man-nipples."

"Have you seen my sweatshirt?" He tried to distract her.

"I found one near the table, but I threw it in the laundry dump."

"Oh, okay," he left for his room to pick out a fresh one.

She called after him, "Where've you been last day?"

"Just a little bit of a tour," he smirked, as he remerged, pulling the shirt over, "Have you seen Joey?"

"He might be sleeping," she said, as she dug a spoon into her cereal, grinning on her own.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Oh, it's just the voices in my head."

Chandler somehow suppressed his sarcastic instinct and what came out instead was an incoherent guttural noise while he walked to the next door, shaking his head. Honestly though, he was a little relieved; it was almost effortless convincing the zany Phoebe.

Joey was awake. In fact, he didn't look all too happy to see Chandler.

"Nice to see you too, Joe," Chandler deadpanned. Joey glared.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"Well, my going to Yemen was kind of an impulse decision."

"Not that," he waved off casually, "about the Kathy thing."

Chandler's mind was a little too preoccupied to even jog his memory. What was Joey even talking about? He gazed back confusedly. "Huh?"

"Why didn't you tell me that Kathy cheated on you?"

He looked away. "How did you know?"

"How long have you been hidin' it?"

"Not too long, trust me."

"What d'ya mean?"

Chandler took a long, deep breath. He would've been pleasured if the air had some nicotine in it; he had expected he would never have to reiterate this particular story. "Joey, there's no use digging this now."

"Tell me," Joey growled.

"Okay," he raised his hands in surrender, "The day I went to tell her it's over. She gets a little upset and tells me she slept with Nick almost a year ago to get back at me, you know, that time we fought, the play thing – with the chemistry on-stage and off-stage... you get the gist of it."

"And she hid it from you all this time?"

"She says she loves me."

"Cheeky little bitch."

"Joey," Chandler chastised him, "It's not her fault. I literally threw her at the guy's man-nipples."

"Ugh," Joey clutched his head in dramatic exasperation, "You don't start again. How's it _not_ her fault? And you're thinkin' of gettin' back with her."

Chandler thought he heard him wrong. "What?"

"Monica told me. She said you guys made up in some toy shop."

The idea of it smacked Chandler in the face so hard he almost laughed. "What are you _even_ talking about? That's not what it was."

"It wasn't?"

"No, no," he grinned, not even sure what he was grinning about, "in fact, I told her I was in love with Monica. I guess - not even a guess, I'm pretty sure – that chapter is closed."

Joey's expression turned to ecstatic so abruptly one would wonder if he was performing mime. He leaped in the air and threw himself onto Chandler (Chandler assumed Joey wanted to hug him), his arms wide and inviting, "Now that's the reason you're my best bud!"

"Count in the bracelets and now there're three," he smirked sassily.

Joey patted him on the back, "Dude, you're smiling as if you got laid."

"You'd think, huh?"

* * *

It wasn't that hard of a secret to keep. And if they didn't think about it too often and too deep, it wasn't a hard thing to keep doing either.

The hormones got worse towards the latter half of her pregnancy, and they did it quite a few times more. There was a certain ease about it, and given Monica's situation, even the tiniest misplacement of a magnet could depress her, so he was happy that something was keeping her happy.

He remained a little curious, though. He looked for little signs of whether anything had changed, whether there was a different twinkle in her eyes when she smiled at him, whether there was a different thrill when they kissed, whether there was _love_.

It was hard to know. He couldn't ask her. Or could he?

By then she had swollen round, could hardly move, her moods swiftly shifted between jubilations and extreme misery, so much so that Chandler had to hide away all the photo albums, her tragic wedding dress and every other item that he thought could be remotely shady. For the last few days the idea had been hovering around his head like a flock of noisy birds; her delivery date was near, he could ask her out – and even if she shot him down – he could assure nothing would ever change their equation.

It was better than the constant wondering that ate him inside.

It was late evening and Chandler had a day off. He returned to Apartment 20 after a game of foosball by himself, for Joey had had an unannounced audition and two dates back to back and was out of sight since long. Finding nothing better to do, he settled on the couch beside Monica, who had dozed off with a magazine on her face.

She stirred and blinked, and he hastily turned away, busy with the remote, his heart giving a nasty throb. Pretended to be too into the TV, and quipped, "You missed a goal."

"I was watching soccer?" she raised a sleepy, bewildered eyebrow.

A wasted evening and a soccer match that no one cared about. Would this be a good time to ask?

"Hey," there was a slight knock on the door, as he glanced over his shoulder and watched Ross walk in, "Are you guys free?"

"Since 1776."

Ross halted at his spot, closed his eyes for a split-second as if he were meditating to absorb Chandler's nonsensical answer, before he got to the point. "I think I've got news."

"What news?" asked Monica.

He sat on the centre-table facing them, pursing his lips in barely-controlled excitement. "Okay, the thing is, Emily and I may be getting married."

Chandler's first reaction was a slow gasp; he wasn't sure if Ross noticed, and he hoped he didn't. Sure the Emily thing had been on for what, the last four-five months but he was sure nobody knew it had become _this_ serious. Not to mention Chandler's heart broke a little thinking about how Rachel would be receiving the news.

"Wow," Monica muttered slowly, as if along the same lines of thought, "That's... that's great, Ross. Congratulations."

"I know it's a little hasty," Ross spoke dreamily, "but it just feels right. Plus, Emily knows this beautiful place her parents got married, and it's gonna be broken down soon – although that has nothing to do with the fact we might be going so fast –"

"Yeah, no, it's great," Chandler assured him, "Congrats, man."

"I just wanted to make sure you guys are okay with it, before we make it official."

"Why won't we be okay with it?"

Ross looked uncomfortable under their gaze. "No, I mean, after what happened – it's almost a year now – with the two weddings and all. I mean, I won't want to hurt you guys by any means –"

"Ross," Monica laughed, although Chandler could very well hear it cracking with emotion, "You kidding? We can't be any happier. Just keep it away from my due date."

"Your due date's this week, Mon."

"I know," she giggled sheepishly, "any excuse to mention that. Now, excuse me gentlemen, I've got to pee."

They watched Monica's slow-trotting figure disappear into the bathroom. Ross got off the hard central-table and found a place on the sofa. He blew out a long sigh. Chandler could tell something was on his mind. Maybe Ross was just nervous, too many emotions constricting him what with his own wedding and his sister's baby coming.

"Long day, huh?" Chandler still tried to start a conversation.

"Yeah," he said, pensive, "More like a long year. So much happening – everything was so messed up." He turned to Chandler; he sounded heavy and intense, and if Chandler wasn't mistaken he saw Ross's eyes glistening, "I gotta tell you, though. What you did for my baby sister –"

"Hey, c'mon now," he did a little laugh, "Don't fret over it."

"No, really. I should. I really should. You were there when even I couldn't. I mean, she looks so happy now – after all that happened I'd honestly thought it would take a long time to get back to normal – seriously, Chandler, and I mean it – you're the best friend any guy can ask for."

"Hey, come here," he reached out to squeeze Ross's shoulder, held back the lump in his own throat even as he watched Ross breaking down, "Listen, it was _never_ me. It was your sister all this time. She saved me. And I thought I could do this little bit to repay her."

Ross wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve, tried to be subtle about the crying, quite unsuccessfully. "I just – I hope she understands how much she means to me," he stuttered, "I feel like sometimes I don't show it enough – or do enough – I don't know, with mom behaving like that... I don't know if she blames me –"

"She doesn't blame you," Chandler insisted, "And you've always been a great big brother. Get that in your head, okay?" Ross shook his head, dug his face in his palms. He kept breaking, and it hurt. Chandler blinked back tears and persisted with an unexpected firmness, "Ross, I mean it."

"Yeah, yeah I know. Thanks, Chan."

"You need a tissue?"

Ross chuckled through his tears. "I'm good. I got a dino snot rag."

He beamed at Ross. "Now c'mere and give me a manly hug."

* * *

That little chat with Ross kind of complicated it. All the nice things Ross had said about him, sent him into a wild tizzy inside.

Was it a little selfish now? If Chandler asked her out, would it mean all this time he had an intention behind all that sweet assistance?

He didn't know. When they had begun living together, he had nothing in his head apart from the sole idea to protect her from falling apart. He was disgusted at her mother, sure the lady might've meant it for some good under the surface, but there certainly were other ways to put it – or better still to just keep it to herself. Monica had been alone, and she needed help.

So? What to do? Shut up and take it to the grave? Be completely honest with her? The more he thought about it, the urge to tell everything grew tenfold.

"I can't be resting all day," Monica moaned from the couch, long after Ross was gone and she was done flipping the magazine a dozen of times, unaware of the emotional mess he and Ross went through while she had been in the bathroom, "Sitting around is so tiring!"

"Mon," he began, slouching beside, "How d'you think Rachel will take the news?"

"I know," she exhaled, "It's gonna hurt."

"You think she should've told him about her feelings?"

"I don't know. Maybe," she said, "If she had to, she should've come clean long ago. The less the complications, the better it is. It's too late now."

"Yeah."

"But I see where she's coming from. What Ross did was a big blow. That got to take some time."

How big of a blow would it be if he told her that his feelings for her had begun a chain reaction that somehow led to Richard's accident? His breathing went shallower in the face of it, while he nodded along, "Yeah, yeah."

"Wasn't too long ago when we thought they're gonna end up together, didn't we?"

"Yeah. It's a shame they broke apart."

"I really thought they'd be back together again. In some ways, they _so_ belong together," she trailed into deep thought, "It's so late now."

"What must it be like to have a friend coming out of the blue telling them they love them though."

Monica smiled at that. "You know what, it's everybody's fantasy."

Chandler groaned internally and stared at the skies for help. She was messing with him, right? Unknowingly toying with his emotions and pulling the strings like some kind of a puppet-master? He drew his knees to his chest and tugged at his hair.

"What's up with you?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, "I'm just stretching." His limits.

He had to do it. It was a good time. There was nobody to interrupt; if all went well, they could go to sleep together – if it didn't – they could just go to their own rooms and drift away trying not to think about it. In any case, he had to do it. He would've had to do it sooner or later.

"Mon," he gently took her hand, "I gotta tell you something."

She looked a little surprised, maybe with a pinch of curious. "Yeah?"

Before he could begin, she flinched, her hand pulled out of his grasp, as if in shock. His insides gave the nastiest possible churn – did she read his mind again? Did he just throw everything he had down the drain? Hysteria bubbling up in his chest, he bit his lip and tried to focus.

"What is it?"

"I think – I think my water just broke."

* * *

 **Hey guys, sorry I left such a weird note at the end of the last chapter... It's just I got a little ill and the chapter wasn't supposed to end there, and I didn't want to disappoint you guys so I felt I compromised with whatever quality I usually present with. Whatever it is, you people are awesome! Life's pretty dull for me, so the feedback at the end of the day cheers me up!**


	12. Chapter 12

XI

* * *

"Oh my God."

Chandler sprang to his feet at once, flailing his arms about, too many things jamming his head at once. He reached out for the phone to call the hospital, halfway darted towards the hanger to get the jackets, retreated to first pull Monica up on her feet – not sure which one to do first –

"Chandler, you're panicking!"

"Uh huh, join me, won't you?"

What began as a little laugh from Monica grew into a startlingly loud grunt as she fell back on the couch while a contraction set in. Chandler looked at her and breathed deep; he realised the desperate arm-flailing was only delaying the moment of action. With one swift swish, he dialed the hospital, and with another, grabbed a couple of jackets, paged Ross and Rachel, banged Joey's door thrice (yelling the rest incoherently fast, hoping he'd get the gesture), prayed somebody would inform Phoebe, and helped Monica down the stairs to a cab.

Well, that went smooth. At least he hoped so.

"Uh, Mon, awkward question," he started as soon as the taxi fired up the engine, "We haven't decided the name for the baby yet. Forget deciding, we haven't even given it a thought."

Monica gave him such an innocent pout it looked like she might break into tears any moment. He mentally groaned at himself and flared his instincts for some damage control. "D-d-d-don't cry," he stuttered, rubbing her shoulder, "We did think some names, we'd just do a lottery!"

"God, what did I even do all these months!" cried Monica, the idea of not a single name suggestion possibly being the biggest black blot on her hyper-organised image.

"We can name her Yasmine –"

"We're _not_ naming her Yasmine!"

"Well, worth a shot. Then we truly have nothing."

His words were followed by another contraction, as she moaned loudly and stifled the life out of Chandler's wrist in the process. In the next few seconds she calmed down, and stared out of the cab window as if nothing happened.

"Why are your contractions so close together?"

She turned at him sheepishly, "Well, I just realised I have been getting them for quite a while now... but I thought they were stomach cramps because I ate too many sandwiches."

It took Chandler a moment to regain his ability to speak. " _Haaaow_ could you possibly think that?"

"I know, I messed up," she hung her head, "and I was with Joey. I got so obsessed with the due date I forgot to look for signs!"

This was not good. This was _so_ not good. He didn't have too much of an idea but for all he knew Monica could be giving birth in the cab. He didn't even want to press the mere possibility of it lest he wanted to witness her panic and scream through the roof about the sterility of the seats.

"Another - another contraction... arghhh!" Monica yelped, clutching the window sill with one hand and his shoulder with another till the long second passed. Then all of a sudden, like a wild whiplash, she was jerked forth as the taxi stopped short on its tracks.

"What happened?" asked Chandler sharply.

"It's the traffic. Road's blocked," replied the cabbie.

"What?" Monica seemed hysterical, the hair already frizzling up into a mess, and eyes bulging out of the sockets "What do you mean, blocked? Clear it out, tell 'em to go home, do something dammit – I can't give birth in the stupid cab!"

The cabbie looked visibly offended for a second before Chandler subtly raised his hands and shook his head, gesturing him not to mind when it's coming from a woman in labour. "Look, there's nothin' I can do, Miss," the cabbie explained, "We're too far stuck in the jam to turn the taxi around."

Chandler gave her a glance and found her staring back, her forehead coated with beads of sweat and lips pursed, alternating between pain and panic. He rubbed his temples, trying to rack his brains when Monica pitched an idea, and very loudly if he may say so.

"Will you get into my skirt and check how much I've dilated?"

" _What_? No!"

"Oh, c'mon, it isn't as if you haven't seen it before."

He felt his ears heat up in embarrassment. He probably even felt the cabbie's ears heat up in embarrassment as the poor guy with a noticeably tattered cap blew his horn twice and shoved his head out of the window for some fresh air.

"You know, if we go through this ordeal ever again – together – I'll make sure I duct tape your mouth before getting into the cab," Chandler grumbled under his breath, before he looked up at the skies in prayer and gently peeked into her skirt, "I- I don't know, I see a valley of darkness... It doesn't look close though. We gotta get you to the hospital. It might take hours to clear out the jam."

Without further ado, he climbed out of the cab, and then peered in curiously. Monica looked on, a little bewildered, "I think I want to ask... What are you doing?"

"C'mon, get out of the cab. I'll carry you to the hospital."

"You – _what_?"

"Seriously, you want the leather seats be the first thing the kid sees? C'mon, it'll take fifteen minutes max. It must be around three-four blocks away and the traffic doesn't look like it's gonna clear out soon. So, let's go. I'll try running."

Monica was still hesitant, so he made the first move, scooping his arm under the crease of her knees, and cradled her into his arms. She was unexpectedly heavy, as his own knees trembled a bit before adjusting to the weight. In the middle of everything, however, all he noticed was her shallow gasp when he picked her up; their eyes met for a short second of solace amidst the chaos and the traffic, a second that no one can ever take from him, a second that in any ordinary circumstance would spell love, a second that was all he needed to live with if she never reciprocated his feelings, a second he could die with if the fairytale crashed down in the next.

"Thank you," she breathed, her eyes welling up.

"For what?" he chuckled, and pecked her on the forehead.

"It's on the house, big guy," said the cabbie in between, before even asked for the fare, his yellowed teeth on display, grinning ear to ear, "Now go getcha wife to the hospital."

There was no time to clarify.

* * *

"Need anything? More ice chips?" asked Chandler as he tugged the bed sheets into position, "I'll be right outside, will check if the others have arrived yet."

"The big book of baby names, maybe?" laughed Monica.

He half-turned with his lopsided, trademark smirk, "I'll run by the gift shop."

As soon as he left, she sank into the pillow with a deep sigh. Rubbed her chest to ease out the loud throbbing, gulped to bury down her dry throat the emotions and doubts and situations bubbling in her stomach that she had been trying to drown beneath gallons of orange juice for the past few months.

"Man, I sigh so much these days I'm afraid the baby might pop out of my mouth," she groaned to herself. Her mind ran in a circle around the grinning cabbie's husky cheer.

 _"Now go getcha wife to the hospital."_

She'd be lying if she hadn't given it a thought herself. The next sigh was followed by an embarrassingly loud burp. Glad to be alone in the room at the moment, she twisted and turned in discomfort, while sketching a timeline into her worked-up, occasionally repressed thoughts.

It was a bad, a very bad idea to sleep with Chandler in the first place. She couldn't keep the promise to herself. She _fell_.

Somewhere at the back of her head, she knew this was bound to happen. She just didn't know why. She had been trying to distance herself to the best of her ability in the past few months, albeit without much success, but the magnetic pull was too hard to deny. She was addicted to his tender touch, she found peace in his funny words, she had intentionally fallen asleep on the couch just to have him come up and wrap her over with a blanket and kiss her forehead. Their physical connection was ethereal. They had been up one night talking about practically nothing, and yet time never happened to have passed in a better way.

Hormones _schwormones_. No matter how good she had become at denial, she knew deep down she might have had developed legitimate feelings for Chandler. She had begun to adore his smile. His incredible capacity to care. The ease with which he slipped out a nonsensical sarcastic answer to a serious question. His manner of giving a warm hug from the back, the way he wrapped his arms around her waist. First as a friend, and then, maybe, as something more. And now, so head over heels she had been somersaulting all over the place.

The worst part of it was, he never even gave her a chance to complain. He had accompanied her to every doctor's appointment. He had calmed her when she freaked out in the Lamaze class. He had carried her three blocks to the hospital just so she wasn't compelled to give birth on the dirty taxi seat, for crying out loud. It was the kind of stuff teenage fantasies were made of.

He made her troubles his own and never let his own troubles bother her.

This was _so_ bad. And the worse of the worst part was this had nothing to do with any kind of feelings on his side. Probably he just saw her as his lonely, depressed pregnant friend, and got carried away with all the helping. Probably he was just an insanely nice guy doing insanely nice things. Probably, deep down, he still loved Kathy and all Monica had become was a sorry second Betty to his Archie.

No, that wasn't even close to the worst part.

The worst part was, and had to be, the constant guilt that clawed into her chest and grabbed her heart, and kept repeating _'too soon, too soon, too soon'_. Sometimes the guilt took up her own voice, sometimes of a random passer-by, and sometimes Richard's.

"Okay to come in?"

Monica looked up to the door, and not too happily. "Hi, mom," she greeted grimly, "why did you bother to come for the birth of the child who you didn't want to see the light of the day?"

Her mother trotted up to the bed, "It's _whom_ , Monica," she replied in an uncanny impression of Ross, even as Monica raised her eyebrows. Was her mother being typically insensitive or was it simply her idea of comedy? Judy adjusted Monica's pillow, and asked in a comparatively concerned tone, "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better. But I'm excited."

Judy took her hand gently, "I'm really sorry I haven't been more encouraging before, Monica."

"No, it's okay," she answered bitterly, "I've a grown a nice little habit of it."

Her mother's brow twitched at the bluntness, but she gave her a wry smile instead, which Monica returned. "I just," Judy began, "I just wanted to tell you how proud I am. You made it through all alone. You are a strong woman, Monica. Stronger than I ever was."

Monica bit her lip and tried to suppress a grin, almost giddying up in happiness at the thought of the past months as she pulled her chin up for an upbeat, almost a singsong response.

"Never alone, never alone, mom."

* * *

Chandler was pacing impatiently to and fro down the hallway when he noticed the swarm of familiar faces rushing up to him. He beamed at them.

"How in the living hell did you guys manage to reach so fast?" Ross erupted, his eyebrows dancing dramatically, "That damned road blockade."

"I followed the secret tunnel," Chandler told him in an almost matter-of-fact tone. Ross frowned, so he shook it off, "It's a long story. I'll tell you sometime."

"So?" asked Rachel, clapping her hands together in excitement, "how close is she?"

"Doctor says it can be anytime now."

"God, this is so exciting I can barely contain myself!" she let out a stifled giggle through her teeth, and started to pace to and fro in an almost similar manner before Phoebe joined in, and thereby they began to whisper and laugh to themselves like gossipy old ladies.

Ross went in to visit while Joey pulled Chandler to a corner. He too, had an axe-wielding maniacal grin on his face, a bit so frightening that Chandler backed off a few steps in the fear that Joey might squish him into a tight hug for no reason whatsoever.

"Easy there, mimey."

Joey nodded smugly, "Big day, huh?"

"You'd think," he smirked.

"So maybe ya tell her how you feel and my two best friends can start a little family together."

His heart dropped to his stomach, even as he scratched the back of his head at the preposterous idea. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

Joey did a double-take. "What? I'm tired of the Chandler-Monica story hangin' on an ellipsis."

He rendered Joey a bored gaze and tried to stray away, "What is truly terrifying is the fact you know the word _ellipsis_."

"Last day this salesman tried real hard to sell me a dictionary," Joey explained with a dopey grin, before ricocheting back to point, "You gotta do it, Chandler. I've seen the way the woman looks at you."

"Joey, not again."

"You gotta tell her. Maybe you don't outright creep her out with an 'I love you' – "

"Thanks," added Chandler dryly.

" – Maybe you make some kind of – some kind of a subtle gesture – like, like you say, 'I like your laugh lines,' or maybe – maybe you just look at her up and down and say, 'how you doin' – sounds good, huh, huh?"

"... No."

"But Chandler –"

"Joe," he persisted calmly, "I'm already scared. One thing at a time, okay?"

It was an exasperated, looking-at-the-skies nod from him; Chandler could feel how Joey's childish antics were manifesting his own deep desire to spit it out, an act that mysteriously got interrupted every time (the whole universe conspiring to throw him a hint, maybe?). He made his way back to Monica's room; buying balloons and a bouquet had somehow slipped out of his mind. He cringed and groaned, when his eyes fell on a vase instead.

Maybe Joey was right. He had to be subtle. And nothing spoke love like a lone rose.

* * *

"Aaaarrgh!"

Chandler was welcomed by another loud, painful grunt by Monica the moment he entered the room, something that sent him scrambling and shoving whatever that remained of the flower in his back pocket. It was followed by a pitched yelp from Ross; apparently Monica had torn out a chunk of his arm hair during the contraction.

"You are ready to push," said the doctor, pulling on the gloves, "Now, now, too many people in here."

There was a split-second of doubt, but it seemed a silent unanimous opinion that Chandler must be the one to stay. He was a little surprised, but Monica was already clutching onto his arm (and arm hair). The girls and Ross mouthed them a 'good luck' before striding off. He stared at her sweat-clammed face; she reflected him an unnerved smile, "This is it."

"Now, push, Monica."

The struggle was real. Monica screamed and gasped and cried even as he tried his best to keep her spirits up and her mind off from the pain (the doctor's annoyed glare stopped him from going overboard with the jokes). Her face streaked with tears, nose reddened and forehead dotted with even more sweat, she wrenched her throat out for one final scream, as the sound of the baby's cries filled up the room.

"And here it is," the doctor gawked at the bawling blood-smeared baby, before handing it on to the nurse.

"You did it, Mon," Chandler grinned, hardly able to hold back the tears. She bit her lip, and grinned back. He reached out and kissed her on the lips; he had never initiated a kiss with her before – it was thrilling, it almost looked like they were starting their own little family.

Wrapped in a white towel, the doctor handed her the crying, little ball of cuteness even as the baby flailed her little arms and stretched her fingers. It was picture perfect; there they were, in front of him, two of the most beautiful persons in the world, the two he had grown to love the most in the past few months. The baby stared up with big blue curious eyes, wrapped her tiny hand around Chandler's fingers. It sent a chill down his spine. After all, he was a make-believe daddy now.

"Hey," he began softly; for once he didn't reach out to wipe her unstoppable stream of tears off, he let the happiness flow, "What about Erica?"

She seemed to consider. "Erica?"

"Yeah?"

"I like – I like Erica. How did you come up with it?"

"Just off the top of my head," he chuckled.

"Wow," she gazed lovingly at her child, held her close to her chest, slowly rocking back and forth, "Hey, Erica. I'm gonna love you so much. I'm gonna spoil you real bad," she laughed, "Erica. Erica Geller-Burke."

Geller-Burke.

Geller- _Burke_.

No matter how many times he repeated it in his head, it sounded the same. It felt like a wall crashing down between them, and him. He slowly crept away from her, to near the bed, at a slight distance. For a second it seemed Monica did wonder what happened, but she was all too emotional and preoccupied. She chimed in, "Richard would've been so happy."

"Yeah," he tried to smile, and was all he could manage to mutter out. His temples throbbed so hard he felt the darkness clouding in; he smacked his lips at the bitter taste of reality. He rubbed the corner of his eye, mumbling, "Well, I guess," he glanced around, wanting to finish the sentence before his voice came out all grovelling in self-pity, "I guess I'll call others in."

Without another word, he left. He left fast. He gave the others a wide, fake smile as they got the hint and formed into a happy parade and marched into the room, and left him alone. He wandered along the hallway, and sat on an empty bench. Pulled out the withered rose from his back pocket, twisted and broken and petals falling apart, and threw it aside in the dustbin.

Make-believe daddy. Who was he kidding.

She still loved Richard. Of course she still loved Richard. And he took his own deluded daydreams a bit too far. He scoffed at himself. Well, it wasn't as if he wasn't forewarned.

 _"What would you do when it's time to leave?"_

* * *

 **I know, I know. I'm kinda tired of the teasing too. Heading towards the climax, so things (and events and situations and updates) will happen fast hopefully. For now, Do review and tell me how it was! I love you guys for actually putting through my long rant of a story. :***


	13. Chapter 13

XII

* * *

The sound of the baby sleeping was probably her favourite sound in the world. And it wasn't even a sound; more like an almost inaudible whish and whoosh.

She turned to watch her in the hospital cradle. How she looked like a baby bunny, all wrapped in the blanket. How her droopy eyelids fluttered occasionally, and how the fat cheeks hung down with their weight. How her cute round belly went up and down with each breath. Monica could go on describing her, but she had already spent the last three hours doing the same and maybe needed some sleep now.

It was scary. Monica knew the first step out of the hospital, with a baby in her arms, would be nothing like she had ever experienced. Whether that was a good or bad thing, was still flipped up in the air.

She closed her eyes. Ah, sleep, dear old friend. Back in her mind's eye, she could see the same hospital corridors, albeit some four-five years older. And then herself in that purple tunic, hair dishevelled and somehow held up by a small pin – a hasty effort that she had made before rushing out of the apartment – trotting back and forth right then, waiting for the news of her brother's first baby.

Ross had just shut down on Phoebe's inappropriate singing with a dollar and had gone in for a check when the door opened and the nurse pushed out a wheelchair. Monica had a long yearning look at the mother and the couple of babies in her arms as the party passed them by.

"Oh, twins, cute, cute," gushed Phoebe.

"No fair!" Monica had complained, almost like a kid that got his candy taken away, "I don't even have one, how come they get two?"

"You'll get one," said Chandler, his trademark smirk on point.

"Yeah, when?"

"I'll tell you what, when we're forty, and neither of us are married, why don't you and I get together and have one?"

She had probably taken it the wrong way back then. All that had registered to her mind was 'forty' and 'not married', and the combination was devastating. She stepped up towards him, super-defensive, her arms akimbo, "Why won't I be married when I'm forty?"

"No, no – I meant hypothetically –"

"Okay," she had folded her arms by then, "hypothetically, why won't I be married when I'm forty?"

"No – no – I didn't –"

"Is there something fundamentally unmarriable about me?"

He had chuckled nervously, "I didn't mean – I –"

"Well?!"

He had looked at her for a split-second, and realised the deep waters he had stepped into, and used his usual get-out-of-jail free card. "Dear God, this parachute is a knapsack!"

Monica was startled awake at the noise at the door. It was Phoebe, who had tripped over and was about to knock, but changed her mind and hurriedly stepped back as soon as she saw Monica. "Oh, sorry, Mon, didn't know you were resting. I'll come back later."

"Phoebe!" she called out, even as her friend emerged again, "I'm not sleeping. And I do need to talk."

Phoebe nodded, slowly walking up to the bed and settling on the stool. "Mon," she began like a well-rehearsed speech, "I know how scared you are. But I promise we're all here for you and we love you and if anything comes –"

"I think I have feelings for Chandler."

Phoebe stopped short on her tracks and took a while to process it. A little more than a while. More like, a second. Or probably thirty.

"Phoebe?"

Phoebe stuttered, stared as if she just woke up from a concussion, "You – you sure?"

"Yeah, I guess," Monica buried her face into her palms, her back heating up in embarrassment, "I guess it's just a crush. But – but what if it isn't just a crush? What if I – God, I'm so confused."

"My God, Monica, I thought you said it was just hormones!"

"Well, I thought so too, didn't I?" she snapped back. This conversation wasn't helping.

"So," Phoebe mused, "What now? You gonna tell him? You think he's at the same place?"

"I don't know, we've had sex a few good times –"

"You – _what_?!"

She gasped really loud, almost like an asthmatic attack. Monica wasn't sure if she were to take it seriously or just as Phoebe's attempt to emote the shock. Still she asked, "You okay, Phoebe?"

"You – I" she stifled a yelp, "What is even going on with you guys?!"

"We're kinda... friends with benefits."

"Oh well, too bad you have the strings attached now."

"... I need some help here."

"Are you gonna tell him or something? You know you can freak him out and I don't know – things might get so awkward you guys might not be able to remain in the same room together and –"

Monica seethed through her teeth. "Phoebe? The helping thing we just talked about? You're kinda digressing."

"Okay, okay," she exhaled and steadied herself, pushed back her zany locks popping up at every angle over her forehead, "Monica, even before you think about it, you have to remember you have a child now. You gotta ask yourself, if, if by any chance he's at the same place, would he take the responsibility of parenting a kid? A kid that isn't even his. And this is Chandler we're talking about."

"But," Monica couldn't help push away the sinking feeling in her gut, "but he was excited – for all – for all of this."

Phoebe squeezed her hand, a certain look of pity on her face that made Monica grit her teeth again, "As a friend, Mon."

Monica glanced away, inaudibly muttering under her breath, "How'd you know, hippie."

"You gotta remember he's broken, Mon, after all that happened –"

"– And I'm not? If I'm ready to start anew, why can't he?"

Phoebe scratched her face with a kind of surrender; it seemed there was no convincing Monica the other way. Monica slid back into her bed, a little angry. What had she even expected. Certitude? Jubilations? Maybe Phoebe was right. After all, she was only looking out for her when Monica had stomped out hunting for new reasons to get her heart broken again.

"The only question is," began Monica, much calmer than before, "how Chandler feels. If he feels the same, then I've seen enough to not be scared about our future. Phoebe, promise me something, what we talked about doesn't get out of this room. Okay?"

* * *

Against all his will, wishes, strength and prayers, Erica had started to become an indispensable part of his life.

The baby was here and his work was done. Accordingly he should've been ready to move out, but three months later he still hadn't been able to garner enough courage to make total honesty his best policy.

On top of it, after the nine-to-five dull work that made him yank his hair out, seeing Erica – let alone Erica, seeing her soiled diapers – felt like the best thing in the world. He didn't mind changing them; he didn't mind jerking awake in the middle of the night to the baby's cries either (he had always been an unusually light sleeper). He had often had to pick up the screaming Erica from the crib and calm her down to sleep.

Often it was the bigger baby (it made Chandler laugh to think of her this way), collapsing tiredly on the couch after a ten hour long shift and another two hours feeding and struggling to put Erica to sleep. Monica drifted the moment her head touched the surface, her arms widespread, a subtle satisfied smile still etched on her face. So it fell on him to cover her with a blanket every night before he nestled up beside the crouched, snoring Monica for an hour of the Ernie Covacs show.

When it was obvious that it wasn't too convenient for either of them to take turns and stay at home looking after Erica, they had decided on a nanny hunt. Chandler was a little surprised at how much Monica had depended on his choices, and how protective he himself had become of the little baby.

She loved to grab his little finger and giggle at the noises he made. On more than one occasion, he had risked his life into smuggling Joey's bedtime penguin pal out of his room since Erica loved poking at stuffed toys.

It looked like a family.

Only it was an illusion. And he knew it.

"Zip me up, will you?"

He broke out of his trance and looked up to the sight of Monica in a sleek red gown baring her glorious back at him. His jaw dropped for a second, before he composed himself into a response, "Huh?"

"What, do it?" she insisted, "I'm pretty sure this bridesmaid's dress isn't gonna fit me..."

There seemed Monica's first attempt to bookend this over-complicated relationship. He pulled the zip up, an unfair knotting at the pit of his stomach. Ross's wedding had almost jumped out of his mind, what with the baby duty and dull work and all the angst and thinking he did on a daily basis. Ross had already asked him to be his best man and he couldn't leave now, could he?

"Mon, I think we have to talk about something," he said. Not sure how to continue though.

She paused and waited, then asked with a slight turn of head, "Is this the same thing you were gonna tell me before we rushed to the hospital?" She seemed... curious.

He froze for a split-second, then laughed nervously, "Um, er – not sure if following you," he babbled without thinking, "I guess it was about some stupid – well, um, no, that's not what I was gonna say." Alright there. How was he (ever) going to frame a cohesive sentence that meant he was required to move out of the apartment? Maybe he should begin with how frantically he was in love with her, he thought, and how he didn't want to fall anymore. _Pfhffft_. He rolled eyes at himself. Or maybe it should be a simple 'You'll move on and I'll move out.'

"Chandler?"

"Yeah, yeah," he shook it off, "I was thinking, well – I was thinking, maybe – you know, maybe we should buy a tougher crib – I almost saw Erica tumble out of it one day –"

His mouth was on autopilot, he had no idea what he just blurted out. A concerned nod from Monica at least made sure whatever he said made sense. But then she gave him a lopsided smile and a raised eyebrow.

"Seriously, Chandler, our kid has to be the hulk to actually manage to crawl her way out of a wooden crib."

 _Our_ kid, huh? It made him a little giddy. It should hurt, but he was so numb he wasn't sure if anything hurt him anymore. With a half-hearted grin, he returned to his paperwork. "Oh, and by the way, the dress is gorgeous."

* * *

Monica opened the Apartment 19 door to the sight of Joey trying to deflate an overstuffed suitcase, with bangs and kicks and occasionally a jump on it.

"You'll break it," she deadpanned, before she peeked into the fridge for some milk and immediately shut it back, all courtesy of the pungent smell that stung her nose.

"What's in there, rotting fish?" she gagged, "And why are you packing?"

"I got a gig in L.A," he gave her a goofy grin, "I'm gonna be a stand-up comedian at a big shot restaurant for a week."

Monica did a double take. "What?"

"Yeah yeah," he repeated the whole thing excitedly, "See, it works. Hey girl, do you have a map? Because Joey Trrrribiaaaani's lost in your eyes." Then laughed dramatically to himself as if it was some kind of an inside joke.

" _Joey_ ," she chuckled at the silly laugh, "That's not stand-up comedy. That's a pick-up line, and a pretty lame one if I may say so. And _why_ would you want to do that anyway?"

"Yeah, actually someone told me this is Woody's favourite place in the town."

"Woody? Woody Allen?"

"The director!"

"I know who he is, Joe."

"But see how cool it is!" there could be nothing wavering his confidence, "I go there, I do some comedy, and the next thing I know, I'm in his movie!"

For the lack of a better response, Monica nodded. "...Okay."

"I have it aaallllll planned out."

"Um, but what about the fact you _can't_ do stand-up comedy?"

"I said I have it all planned out," he insisted like a child, then with a whip of the arm, pulled out a small notebook from the suitcase and held it aloft like a trophy, "This baby has all kinds of stock. Plus, I got some tips from Chandler."

Her heart leaped at the mention of the name even as Joey interpreted the sudden blank face as some more doubt in his comedic skills. "I know what ya gonna say," he said crankily, "We don't laugh at his jokes just to mess with 'im, but you gotta admit the dude's hilarious."

Monica tried to lighten up with her own joke, "I'm guessing you're still talking about Chandler?"

"Suitcase's done," he patted on its back as if it were his pony, and pulled down the baggage from the couch, "ticket's here and the plane's in a couple of hours. Hasta la vista, mon frére." He gave a peck on Monica's cheek and strutted across the space towards the hall, in some kind of a jazzy tune.

"Joey wait."

He stopped short in his tracks, "Yeah?"

Trying to begin was always the hardest. She fiddled with her fingers and stared at her shoelaces. Bit her lip and blankly gazed forth, soon realising she was wasting his time and it was only out of utter politeness that Joey wasn't complaining. She mumbled, "Well, you know Chandler, don't you...?"

He raised a bewildered eyebrow. "Um, yeah, I'm guessing?"

"No, no, no. I didn't mean that. I mean, you _know_ Chandler... you know, if he'd like to be a parent, or if he's at a place where he's over Kathy... you know, turned over a new leaf, you know what I'm talking about."

Joey narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion. "I'm not sure. What _are_ you talking about?"

This was already uncomfortable. She felt her face bypassing maroon. Shuffled under shirt to release some of the heat pooled at her neck. "I just wanted to know... you know, if he might want to start dating."

"And why you ask?" Joey still sounded a little sceptical. Monica didn't reply, just gestured at him with a ghost of a smile and a shy pout, when the realisation struck him like lightning. "Oh my god, oh my god!" he exclaimed, "I bloody knew it!"

Well, this was encouraging. He looked happy about it. And way happier than Phoebe. But this was Joey. She could've come here telling she wanted to date Elmo and he'd still been happy.

He hugged her for a while before skipping back and checking his watch, "This is so exciting. And I'm gonna miss the flight now." With it he dragged the suitcase out in the hallway. She darted behind him, her heart thumping rapidly against her chest, so loud it was drowning out all noise. It was however, compensated by this light, floating sensation that she could almost hop like a kid across the space.

"So you think I should tell him?"

"I don't think you'll be disappointed, Monica," he winked at her before he disappeared down the staircase.

Her insides tightened into a jumbled knot. She pursed her lips, chin digging into the cavity between the collarbones, resisting this strong urge to tear out a tuft of her hair. What the hell did he _just_ say? Was he genuinely happy about it, or – or did he know something more? Did he just imply that...?

Dear God, was she in deep, deep trouble. She grinned to herself.

* * *

He had been staring at the old office clock for about an hour. He sighed, even as his heavy head dropped into his arms on the desk. Bored and emotionally exhausted, he ripped the drawer open and pulled out a strip of Aspirin from amongst the mess. His gaze fell on his address book; he flipped it about, and paused at a name: Martha H. Wilson. His shrink. He considered.

No. Not another session under the moody light and uncomfortable stools and freaky couches and distracting skirts and silent penetrating gazes. He could handle this shit alone.

"Chandler," his secretary walked into the room, "Mr. Costilick is asking for the tentative annual reports."

"Uh, okay," he responded, still clutching his head, his other hand groping around for the files.

"Are you alright?"

"Oh, yeah, I got a slight fever, that's all," he shrugged.

"Mr. Costilick also wanted to meet you in person."

"Okay."

The more he occupied himself about it, the worse he felt. He thought about the terrible, terrible times that culminated to that one night when he could've died, before he moved in with Monica. It saved him. But the security was always a bubble that would've burst sooner or later.

It wasn't too hard to imagine, but it was a legitimate, not just a rhetorical question. What would he even do without them? And not just Monica, and Erica, but even Joey, and others. With the fascinating parents he had, and the droll dry workplace he wouldn't care about even if his life depended on it, his world was set around his friends. He knew he couldn't bear to be around watching Monica marry some tall moustached handsome stranger; he knew he couldn't bear to be around for too long and watch Erica grow up, and let their bond grow so magnetic that it was impossible to leave without wrenching his heart out. One of them had to cut their path out of the group of friends and his exit seemed more fitting.

He knew he'd hurt Joey too bad. He could imagine himself pleading to him over the phone, making a promise to keep contact. To make visits during Christmas. Maybe he'd be able to keep it. Maybe not.

And Ross. Ross would be pissed. But he had his wedding ahead of him. And perhaps a lot of other stuff to keep him busy.

Rachel would tell him she had forewarned him. A little anger there as well, he guessed. She might throw a pillow at his head across the living room.

Phoebe would mind too, but maybe not for long.

"Mr. Costilick, you asked for me?" He peered into a posh cabin with a formal knock. A slightly-older man nodded from his chair even as Chandler trotted in.

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bing," the man joined his hands on the desk, his expression unreadable, "I've been thinking to ask about the annual reports."

"Well, Helen's just bringing them in," he replied awkwardly, not sure where this was heading. Was he in a mood for jest, or was he going to fire him? There were quite a few reasons; Chandler had never put enough heart in any of the projects, had somehow pushed through... he guessed the standards were never too high as he had still managed to impress them most of the time – well, all the more reasons for them to never get off his back.

Still, it was Costilick. He could take him. Had it been Doug today, Chandler would have made a beeline to the ground right out of the window.

"No, that's okay," said Costilick, "Chandler, you've always been a treasure to our company, and I know you had a trouble year on your personal front, but your work hadn't been very..."

So, there it was. He was being fired. Chandler gritted his teeth and waited for it. He didn't quite feel bad about it; he guessed he was only thrown hints around to have his life sorted from the scratch.

"I was wondering," continued Costilick, "whether you'd like to run our office from Tulsa."

What?

"Erm-er-huh?" for the lack of a proper response.

"It's a promotion, Bing," Costilick smiled, "And the fresh air will help you."

"I don't think so, sir."

The old man's forehead creased, "What do you mean?"

"I don't think I'll take it. In fact, I think I have news for you," he took a deep breath and looked the boss in the eye, "I resign."

* * *

Monica would be lying if she said she hadn't spent the last five hours obsessing over Joey's riddling sentence. Even baby care and Christmas preparations couldn't deter her.

What for fuck's sake did he mean? Shouldn't it have been, "Don't hold out too much hope, Monica," or, or – something, maybe something like, "You would be disappointed, Monica," or – _wait_ , maybe he did say that. Maybe she misheard him. Maybe she heard what her heart wanted to hear.

If she indeed misheard him, the matter ended there. It meant Chandler had always seen her as a friend and nothing more. But if she didn't – what did that mean? Did that mean he actually talked about her to Joey? Did that mean he too had conscious, legitimate feelings about her? Or did that just mean he saw her through, through all the kisses and sex and the friendship.

Whatever it was, she had to know tonight.

She probably did hear him right. And as the time passed, she recklessly inched towards that possibility.

Chandler would be a wonderful father. Heck, he already _was_ a wonderful father. Make-believe daddy, like he called it. She could tell how much love he held for her little baby, she could tell it by a look at his eyes. His rocking Erica back and forth, the silly singing he did always had such an instant soothing effect on the baby everytime she screamed her throat out at nights and brought the whole building to a tizzy. It worked like a perfect chemical equation.

But it bothered her how little love he gave himself. Behind all his funny-man vibes, he seemed so lost. A year ago, he used to make his self-deprecation the butt of his own jokes. It didn't seem funny anymore. She knew he felt a little lonely. And no matter how much she tried, he wouldn't open up about it. He'd crack a joke, shrug about it, and then shake it off. Then on, she had tried to act oblivious, tried to put his mind onto other things, tried to keep him happy.

It hurt her to think something was hurting him. Man, if he were her boyfriend she would spoil him so bad. She laughed at the thought, gazing through the half-decorated Christmas tree into space, against the candle light. All of a sudden she heard the door creak.

"Hey," it was Chandler. He dusted the snow off his shoulders and hung up the overcoat, strands of his hair studded with frost.

"It's cold outside, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he replied weakly, "What's with the scented candles?"

Good that the light was dark; he couldn't have seen the red flaring up her cheeks. She laughed nervously, almost flailing an arm around the table to shove the roses down to the chair and out of his sight, one of the few 'preparations' she had done for the big night. "I was kind of in the mood," she scratched at the back of her ear, "Um, hey, will you join me on the couch?"

His brow crouched, and culminated into a small chuckle, "Was that an innuendo? And where's Erica?"

"She's sleeping."

"Oh. Okay." He readied to leave.

"Where're you going?"

"I wanted to change out of the work clothes. Mon, what's going on?"

"Nothing," she breathed, "Nothing, there's just something – something I wanted to tell you." She sensed her heart launch into a race at the goddamned words. She clenched her fists and inched a bit closer to him. She didn't know why she did that; maybe she wanted to whisper it into his ear or something. She blamed it on her instincts.

"Actually there was something I had to tell you as well," said Chandler. She stared up at his eyes; they were heavy and tired. She could get this faint stink of nicotine from his clothes. He didn't smoke these days unless he was really worked up. What was he on about?

"Oh, well, then – um, you say first."

"You okay, Mon?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," she mumbled, breaking the eye contact, rubbing her toe to the floor.

"Actually," he sighed, "ah, this is hard – actually, my company's shifting me to Tulsa – Tulsa for I don't know, a year maybe, so..."

She wasn't sure if she heard right. "You're leaving?"

"I kinda have to. It's my job."

"It's a job you hate."

"That doesn't change anything, does it? Plus, the money's great."

She gazed hard into the floor as her eyes stung with tears. An abrupt chill went through her body as she wrapped her arms around her herself, trembling. That was _it_. That was pretty much it. He had no attachments here. He wanted to leave and comfortably believed that his going wouldn't change anything.

"Okay," she croaked, with a certain firmness, jumping back a distance that probably would never mend before she stormed off to her room, attempting her best to hide the tears rolling down the bridge of her nose, "Have a good trip."

* * *

Lies. Too many lies.

He felt as if his mind had suddenly lost track of reality. He put up a strange facade, and he didn't even know why. He voluntarily made it into a lie, when it could've easily been true.

Maybe he did it for his own satisfaction. Maybe he felt better if the whole thing – leaving them for money – was a lie.

Monica hadn't been talking to him for the last two days, and justifiably so. He wasn't even sure how he sounded like – maybe like some kind of cocky money-minded ass who only thought of himself. The others hadn't commented much; just Phoebe who gave him a lowly, confused stare, and Ross, who asked a few questions about the job, and he made up some more lies like a pro. Also, he was more than happy that Joey wasn't in the city.

As of right then, he had been flipping his clothes around, stuffing suitcases, slamming drawers. He wasn't sure what he was doing, where exactly he was going. Maybe he'd spent a day on a bench at Central Park. His phone book flopped out of the drawer. He gave it a long glance, then went for the phone. His pride was about to take a major hit. But again, when nothing else was left, what'd he do with it.

"Hello, can I speak to Nora Bing?"

"Hello, this is her agent," a guttural old voice replied, "may I ask who's calling?"

"It's Chandler Bing, her son – "

"Oh, Chandler!" the guy exclaimed into the phone as if he had known him for ages, "Nora is at a press conference at the moment. But I'll inform her about your call as soon as it ends."

"Okay, thanks."

He tossed the receiver back and collapsed on the couch. He was so tired. Only if he could break down and cry. He was just about to grumble and force himself back to the packing when the door was flung open with such force he thought someone blasted it apart.

It was Rachel. She had a knack of taking her wrath out on the poor door. He looked at her over his shoulder. Yes, she was mad. Hysterically biting her lip and right on the verge of angry tears. Maybe it was more of the Ross trouble.

"I need to talk to you."

The grimness of her tone scared him. "Sure," he popped up from over the couch.

"You know what," she began, in a terribly low voice, as if she was holding something out, "I was in my office today, when I thought I might as well have lunch with my good friend Chandler, because you know what, apparently he's leaving for Tulsa in a few days. And then when I went down there, I found out Chandler Bing has quit his job. Fishy, isn't it?"

His insides twisted even as colour dropped from his face. " _Rach_."

"You know _what_ ," she yelled, "I'm done. I'm _so_ done. I'm gonna tell everybody."

"Rachel, please, no."

"You _lied_! You lied to us so you can cut us out of your life. How could you _even_ do this, Chandler?"

He simply stood there. Wide eyed, furious, but also hurt, she waited for a reply. His shoulders dropped as he shook his head, "I – I don't know what to say."

She stepped towards him, "Chandler – "

"I'm doing what I'm supposed to do. I signed up for it. What _am_ I supposed to do? Am I supposed to tell her that I'm leaving because I'm _desperately_ in love with her, that I can't sit around watching her be with some guy that I'm never gonna be? Am I to make her feel as if she's obliged to be in love with me just because I helped her out for a few months? It isn't give-and-take and it isn't supposed to be! _Goddammit_ yes, I'm running away, Rach, but what else am I supposed to do?!"

A big fat tear rolled down her eye. "Okay," she calmed herself somehow, rubbing her chest, "Where are you going, then?"

"I don't know."

"Are you not even gonna give us your real address –"

"Rach, I'm telling the truth. I'll keep in touch, I promise."

"Okay."

"Please don't tell others. Not till I leave."

She took a long breath. "I won't be able to keep it for long."

"That's fine," he muttered, "thanks." Swallowing down what felt like a rock in his throat, he began drag himself back to his messy room.

"What about Erica?"

She had to ask. He stopped. As if it wasn't painful enough already. From the corner of his eye, he looked at the empty crib. Monica had taken her out in the park for some fresh air. He put on the façade again, despite his voice shaking, "What about her?"

"Isn't she like your daughter?"

"She isn't like my daughter," he replied with whatever strength he was left with, "She _is_ my daughter. But I'm not her father, Rach. I'll never be."

"Okay."

There was a tempting, thick blanket of silence. Then begrudging footsteps. Then a slam of the door. She had left. Perhaps unconvinced.

Chandler fell on the couch again, his knees going weak, his head spinning. He wanted to throw up. This shouldn't have been this hard. He hesitated for a second, but then picked up the receiver again. Dialled a dreaded number. It didn't matter anymore, he had nothing to lose.

A low-key "hello" came from the other side.

"Hello, dad?"

* * *

 **Whew. The chapter was long and kinda emotionally drained me. I'm gonna go take a nap now. Love to (kinda scared of :P) have some reviews!**


	14. Chapter 14

XIII

* * *

 **19th August, 1990**

"Whoa, that was, like, a bazillion stairs," he panted for breath as he dropped the last carton from the truck, somewhere on the kitchen counter, "You got any tools? We'll make a ramp – and just – you know, slide down."

"And carve your way back up?" Monica laughed, already in the process of putting things at their places. He nodded appreciatively looking at her work, then fell on his back over the dilapidated springy couch. She half-glared, and half-smiled, "You'll get the hang of it soon."

"You got the newest G64 Wonder Broom?!" she screamed out in excitement.

"Yeah, but I'm afraid they don't fly."

His little cheeky joke didn't matter; with childish excitement she pulled the broom out of the brand new packaging and examined the fine bristles. All of a sudden, he couldn't help but notice how pretty Ross's sister was. Maybe it was the odd way the old light was falling on her face.

"So, um," she began, "since your place is in scrambles, why don't you come over for dinner?"

He scoffed, "Oh, and your crazy friend is gonna be there too?"

"Hey, just because she called you gay doesn't make her crazy," Monica protested in jest, her arms akimbo, "And no, Phoebe's gonna be with her grandmother. She's gonna take her to the vet or something."

Chandler pursed his lips, raised his eyebrows and made a point-was-proven face only he could; she glanced at it, and surrendered, "Okay, she _is_ a little crazy, but she's still my roommate and you're gonna have to behave."

He laughed. "Okay, okay. So, d'you need some help on the chop-chop? You know, for dinner?"

She paused on her tracks and lingered for a moment, "...Yeah, it'll take you some time to get to know me."

He followed her as she briskly walked back to her own apartment. It was a large yet cutesy place, what with the purple walls and yellow curtains and the lines of bonsai trees along the window that he was pretty sure belonged to her crazy friend Phoebe. "Wow," he commented, "How d'you afford this place?"

"Oh, it belongs to my grandmother," she said, then added with a mischievous grin, "I'm almost living here illegally."

Chandler looked impressed. For a split-second, their eyes met. She immediately looked away, and focused on the onions she was chopping. He too, pretended to stare at the refrigerator magnet with vivid interest. It shouldn't have been weird by now, they've known each other for years already – aside all the Thanksgiving action, he had talked to her for a while at Ross's wedding – they had spent alone time too, mostly when she had come to visit Ross's dormitory and he wasn't there, and she and Chandler had sat at two extremes of the room, exchanging polite smiles.

Well, it was kind of weird that it was not weird anymore. Mathematically, they wouldn't have ended up as friends. And now they were neighbours.

"So, uhm," he cleared his throat, "What are you making?"

"I have some macaroni and cheese left from the afternoon, and here goes some salmon roulade and a pancetta."

"Wow, and I can't even pronounce half of that."

"And um, hey, do you wanna watch a movie with it or something? Then we can go set up your apartment."

"Sure, I," he trailed off, "I've got a DVD collection." To be honest, he had a pretty weird collection, ranging from _Annie_ and _Mary_ _Poppins_ to _Die_ _Hard_ and _The_ _Terminator_ to some American lesbian porn he hoped she'd never discover.

All of a sudden, she began to giggle to herself. Did she somehow read his mind?

"What?" he chuckled along, a little nervous. Maybe Monica had peeked into his classy collection while opening the boxes.

"Nothing..."

"What is it, c'mon, tell me?"

"Fine," she caved in, still laughing, "I was just thinking about your Flock of Seagulls, and how ridiculous you used to look with that."

"Excuse me?" he jokingly scrunched up the sleeves of his sweatshirt, "I was rad."

"Rad."

He shrugged, "Oh, who am I kidding. I was a goof."

"Yeah you were." It was laughter at his expense that just didn't seem to stop.

Nevertheless, he enjoyed it. "But I'll tell you a secret," and with one swoop he skidded right beside, his face so close to her ear it was almost touching. Her laughter wore off for a split-second. "It was a wig," he whispered.

"No way," she backed off into the kitchen again, laughing a little harder than she should have. She tucked her hair back her ear, suddenly in a fix about what to say or what to do. "I – I'll just, I'll get the milk I kept in your fridge."

He watched her go. For some reason, it was endearing. Hell, for all reasons, it was endearing. She was cute, sexy, smart. She was driven and passionate. Other than the fact she was Ross's sister, she would've made for a great girlfriend, wouldn't she?

Smirking, he tossed the thought aside. _Nah, Bing. Too out of your league._

* * *

He was a dead man walking. As if he hadn't iterated it enough times already, everything was a mess. He left New York, left behind a mess – a tangle of fragile relationships he didn't know would even survive through time; his suitcase was a mess; it was bloated, heavy and could just flip open and splatter inside out any minute. His head was a mess; his nerves were so numbed out that right then if a car crashed into him he'd feel nothing.

He noticed his father waiting right outside the airport. His father wasn't the subtlest thing out there, what with the coral necklace and the huge bonnet. His eye too, had caught Chandler amidst the sparse crowd, even as he greeted his son with outstretched arms.

"Merry Christmas," he piped, "And welcome to Vegas."

"Merry Christmas to you too, dad."

"So, what is it, is it some kind of Christmas miracle?"

Chandler's insides twisted into a guilty knot. It wasn't too long ago when he had stood him up. Yet his father was here, having arrived to receive him, smiling. Chandler gulped down the massive glob in his throat and managed to utter, "I'm just here for a couple days actually. I'm looking for a new city to settle in. New job, an apartment – stuff like that. I mean, I'm already halfway through with it... just bits of work left."

He just hoped his father had no idea that he himself had no idea what he babbled out. It seemed as if his father was every bit as scared to make conversation, scared that it would be awkward, scared that they probably would never be able to mend the void between. In any case, his father had been benevolent, taking him at such short notice, so Chandler decided to be the one who kept trying.

"So," he looked about, as they got into a cab, "It isn't as cold as I expected."

His father smiled ruefully. " _Chandler_."

"What?"

"What happened in New York?"

His heart skipped a beat. "Wha –" he trailed off, his breath shallow, mind blackening out of ideas, "Noth-nothing happened in New York. I just –" lacking options, he broke into a forced laugh, "New York. New York is crazy. Too crazy for me. You know, the taxes, traffic – the noise just bums me out."

So much for convincing his dad. It sure didn't work. His father patted him on the shoulder and stared out of the window, even as Chandler sank into his seat in bated relief, guiltily tangling his fingers together. The cold wind was almost chastising him, slapping against his face. He sighed.

He was about to put his Walkman on when he felt his father's eyes on him again. This time, worried.

"You tell me when you're okay, son."

* * *

 **8th April, 1992**

It was a boring, boring night. Ross had just gone back to his place mourning about his wife's new-found sexuality. Monica had sent Phoebe her new home as she was only loitering about for a pity-stay as a 'last night'; Monica was a still a little too upset about the whole thing to celebrate a grand final sleepover with her ex-roommate. Next door, she thought she had heard drunken chat half an hour ago. By now, Chandler and the Joey guy must've had the talk of their lives and gone off to sleep.

So it was just her, slumped on the sofa after cleaning the dishes, staring through the TV. She wondered how she never noticed before how large and empty the apartment was. Meanwhile, there was an unexpected knock on the door. Given the knock was soft; she guessed it was someone she knew.

"Come in," she piped.

It was Chandler, first poking his head in, and then trotting his way to the couch. "You haven't slept yet?" They almost asked at the same time.

He answered first. "I dozed off a while ago, and now I can't sleep at all. I'll say it's the beers... And then I saw the lights on so now I'm here, annoying you."

She grinned. "I don't mind."

"Okay," he settled beside her, "What are we watching?"

"I don't know really," she furrowed her brows at some Chinese dishwashing liquid advertised by clothed dancing cats.

" _Hey_."

"Hey what?"

"You're okay, right?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, "It's just, kind of a big apartment, and living alone... It's lonely."

He clasped her hand, "You won't be lonely, Mon. I'm right next door. And Joey and I will right here all the time, feeding off your fridge."

She laughed at that. "Again, I don't mind. So, how's Joey?"

"Pretty cool, you know. Suddenly I'm not so sad about not getting into the porn star's beach house."

"Do you want to know what he did when I called him in for lemonade?" She thought it was time the most embarrassing story of her new neighbour's life got viral, smiling cheekily.

"No way!" guffawed Chandler as soon as the tale of the naked-man's escapade was over, doubled up in laughter. Possibly taken the evil onus of passing the story on. "No lemonade for him again! Lemonade – is _off_ the bounds!"

In a while the sounds of laughter mingled into an introspective silence, as they went back flipping the channels. It was quite late at night, so TV was either weird ads or soft porn. Still, it was nice having some company around. In fact, she knew Chandler didn't qualify as 'some company'. He was pretty special company. But God forbid she told him and watch him revel in his glory all over the place and jokingly hit on her every two minutes.

"Do you ever wonder what's it like to be married?"

He did a double take. "Are you reflecting, or... actually asking?"

"No, seriously," she folded her legs and sat up straight, "Isn't it nice to think there'll be someone waiting for you at home after a crappy day?"

"Yeah, I don't know," he said, "Marriage seems to me is the phase when the wife forgets her razor and the husband stops keeping a check on his waistline," he glanced at her raised eyebrows, and changed tracks, "which, I think is a very _very_ good thing."

"Oh c'mon, you're gonna get married one day."

He scoffed, "Yeah, right. Let's keep it real."

"Then there'll be lots of little Bings hopping about."

"Do you want me to run out screaming through your door?"

"So you don't think it's nice to have someone?"

"It's always nice to have someone, Monica. I never denied that. But then, again, look at Ross. His whole marriage is about to fall apart."

Realising he had dampened the mood, he added, "However, if I ever meet a girl who makes me want to sing the Double-decker Bus song for her, I may just pop the question."

"Which song is the Double-decker Bus song?"

"Oh, you know," he started to hum, " _na na na... if a double-decker bus... crashes into us, to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die..._ That one."

"You mean The Smiths' song? And you don't even know the lyrics."

"Enough to impress a girl," he pretended to gloat.

"And it's not even that romantic."

"Romantic enough for me," he justified childishly, "Since I don't think I'll ever have enough guts to say the actual words, this'll be like a code for an I-love-you."

She giggled, and then sighed. The whole day was coming back at her, punching her in the gut. "Phoebe's right, isn't she? I know she is. Everybody knows this. I annoy people. I'm high-maintenance. Even if I _do_ find someone I'll scare him away if he spills spaghetti sauce on my couch!" She sensed panic rising through as she spoke; just calmed a teeny bit at Chandler intently listening to her silly rant.

"I try not to get too weird," she dragged on, "I really try. I can't help it. It's just – comes out. Like, it's compulsive. You know. Well, you don't know what I'm jabbering about."

She looked up at him. His face was earnest; maybe he was just refraining from making a joke, maybe he was just being polite, maybe his goatee finally came to good use in hiding his smirk, maybe he was just bored and would any moment wave her off to sleep.

"Monica, I need you to hear me out very carefully."

It got her curious. He continued.

"You don't need to apologise for who you are. You're perfect that way, and no – _wait_ , hear me out – I mean it, okay. And whoever gets you will have to _know_ you. He has to appreciate you, or else he isn't worth it. He'll have to love you with your flaws. If he calls you high-maintenance, then he has to like maintaining you. It's either that way, or the high way. You get it?"

He had to do it. It sent a rush of blood to the head, made her smile like an idiot. "Yeah," she mumbled, trying to hold back the threatening tears and not look like a wuss, when he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into a cosy personal space.

Sometimes she wished if she could just marry her dorky best friend and live in a giant cheese house by the Yoo-hoo river.

* * *

Los Angeles. _Too different_. New Jersey. _Too close_. Ohio. _Too random_. Montreal. _Why, even?_ Tulsa. _The job guys might be there_. Paris. _This was not a honeymoon_. Sydney or something on the other side of the world. _Would take time to settle in_. New York.

New York.

It came across as a knife to the chest. He crumbled the piece of paper and shot it across the bar counter. His head drooped into his arms; already, he had done all he could to keep her – _them_ – out of his head: he tried to accept the reality of it, he had refrained from making phone calls, he had punished himself over the fact his friends might never forgive him once they knew the truth, he had made a list of the new places he could go – everything that came off the top of his head.

He felt someone walk up to him. Only he was too tired to lift his head and see who.

"Scotch neat," his father ordered, even as Chandler sensed a hand on his shoulder, "Do you want anything?"

He shook his head, barely croaking out. "I'm good."

"Sure you aren't feeling light-headed? Because if –"

"Dad, listen," he stopped him midway, "we can't go on this way, acting as if nothing's ever happened. We need to talk."

His father opened his mouth, as though he wanted to argue, but changed his mind; instead he flicked a curly lock of hair away and nodded. "Alright. Let's talk."

And with a breath of finality, he lifted up his head and began to confess. At least it would slide some weight off his chest. "I was there at the restaurant where I asked you to meet me. I just couldn't bring myself," he stammered the words, his dry arid eyes finally glistening, " _Ahhh_ , I couldn't do it. All these years, all I did was push you away. All those letters you wrote – _everything_. And now, now I just come here to hide my ass when I can't face the world. I'm a terrible person. On top of it, I'm a terrible, terrible son. I just – I don't know. Just, please don't hate me."

"Chandler, what are you even talking about?" his father's facial muscles relaxed; probably this wasn't the kind of confession he had expected, "In any case, if anyone needs to say sorry, it's me."

"No, dad –"

"Listen to me, Chandler. I'm seeing you after a long time. Why don't you let bygones be bygones and come watch the show tonight? I thought I'll sing something special for my son."

He was almost halfway along the path of refusal. "I don't know, dad, I'm really tired –"

He looked up and saw sincerity etched in his father's kohl-lined eyes. It was due for a long time, and it was something he knew he wouldn't be able to reject. Not this time.

"Please, son. For me?"

* * *

The boundaries between dream and reality had already begun to blur. The lights of the burlesque seemed to attack him, dwindling before his slightly-drunk state, as he finished up his third shot. The show was about to begin and the crowd was quite sparse.

He wondered, finally, what they might be doing right then. It was around 8 o' clock, Erica must be off to sleep, but then again she slept for most part of the day. Monica must've just returned home from work, having written him off her mind, maybe as a roommate who just left a single mother with a seven-month old baby in the middle of nowhere. The others, he had no idea. Joey must've still been in L.A with his comedy gig, probably sprouting swear words given someone had called and told him what his buddy Chandler did.

The piano chords reverberated in the hall, as the anchorman, who frankly sounded as if he were on Prozac, begun with a round of applause, "Let's hear for the terrific, the gorgeous, Miss Heleeeeenaaaa Handbasket!"

And there was daddy, in a glittering gown, seductively walking into the stage and finding a place on the pianist lap before he started to sing what was possibly a regular there. Chandler had a hard time concentrating; the sound and the applause hammered into his ears. He thudded his head onto the desk and shut his eyes.

"Now, now people," his father continued in his raspy stage-voice, "we have a little something special for you." And after a long pause, "Come on the stage, darling."

The applause had trailed down to mutterings. He couldn't hear any singing, so he guessed it was a technical glitch. Not that he cared so much at the precise moment. Maybe he should get out of there, go somewhere else, and let himself drown beneath gallons of alcohol, ravage his liver and just – stop living.

"Chandler."

His heart dropped to his stomach. He looked up. He imagined it; someone would tell him right now he imagined the voice. How else could – how could – _Monica_?

Yet she was there. Right in the middle of the stage, under the spotlight. In a travel overcoat. Her face glazed with tears. Awkwardly clutching the microphone. Her concerned eyes searching through the crowd, perhaps for him.

"I don't know why I'm here," she stuttered, her voice already hoarse from the emotions, "but I want to know why _you_ are here. After everything we went through last year... together and alone... maybe it was my fault I never told you what you mean to me – what you've always meant to me. So, come back, will you? Ross, Rachel and Phoebe love you. Joey loves you. Erica loves you. And for me, well... I guess."

She took a long breath and held it in, ran her eyes across the darkened room and clasped onto the microphone as if her life depended on it. It was a song, he could almost sense it.

" _To die by your side... is such a heavenly way to_ –"

She stopped the moment she saw him walk onto the stage. It was her breaking point; all the emotions, the adrenaline that had her speech going, rushed to her head as she burst into tears that didn't want to stop. He clutched her hand and felt her collapse a bit on him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I didn't know – "

"– It wasn't your fault, Chandler, if only I had been more - "

"No," he held back his own tears, "No, no – don't explain anything, not now, after all this time –"

"After all this time –"

"– This isn't a dream, right?"

"The best dream ever."

"Monica –"

"– I love you."

"I love you more."

"Never leave, _ever_."

"Now shut up you snivelling snot and let me kiss you."

She grinned. He dug his fingers into her hair and she crashed her lips on his. They didn't mind the burning spotlight, the awed crowd, the hoots and applause, the flashing cameras, the jazzy music. For that one moment, the world blurred and stretched into infinity. It was tacky, it was impersonal, it was crazy, it was dramatic... bottom line was, it was amazing.

* * *

 **Okay, people. Another chapter to go. Yeah it was kinda sappy but then again I put you guys through quite a bit of frustration, and you still stayed with me and my whale of a story, you deserve some sap. You rock!**


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